“I think it’s a good bet that you never know who is going to tear the tits off a cow on any given day.”

George hawked and spat in the street, the stream landing near Grace.

“Them’s that’s mad should have the surgeries so’s they can’t have babies. We could put an end to it in a generation or so, if just one person had the bollocks to say we should cut off theirs.”

“On the contrary,” Thornhollow argued, “I’ve seen plenty of perfectly healthy children born to those deemed insane and decidedly insane progeny of the most normal persons imaginable.”

“I still says there should be the surgeries,” George said.

“I find that very odd indeed,” Thornhollow said, coming to his feet.

“Why is that?”

“I think you should thank me for arguing against the castration of idiots.” He tipped his hat at them. “I have all I need, thank you, gentlemen.”

He passed by Grace, and she turned to walk beside him as they left the policemen in their wake, jaws working awkwardly as if they belonged in the barn beside the fictional, mutilated dairy cow. A smile lurked on Grace’s lips, which she barely managed to contain until comfortably seated inside the carriage.

“I rather enjoyed that,” she admitted to him as their driver touched the reins to the horses and the hoofbeats carried them into the night, thunder rolling to catch up to them.

“I’m a bit surprised to hear it,” Thornhollow said, his face lost in the darkness. “I’d no doubt that you could look upon the horrific without flinching, but to actually enjoy it makes me wonder if perhaps I should truly shield poor ignorant men such as those we’re leaving behind us from you in the future.”

“I’d not hurt them,” Grace said. “But men are always so—” she broke off, correcting herself. “Most men are always so proper in the presence of a lady. To hear men speak to other men as they would if I weren’t there was enlightening.”

“And not to my gender’s credit, I’m sure,” Thornhollow said. “However, what you say is true and part of the reason why I agreed to take you with me from Boston in the first place. Your mind is quick, your attention to detail established, your memory infallible. But the bandages on your forehead—and the scars that will form—provide the perfect cover for all your assets. It’s established; you’re insane.”

“And therefore I am not human,” Grace finished for him.

“Precisely. Most people will assume you lack reason. They’re bound to say anything in front of you. Words that might pass when I’m out of earshot will be trapped by your meticulous mind. Within the bounds of the asylum you’re free to be more expressive, establish some relationships however you can without using your voice. But among the public you’re my fly on the wall, a carrier of all the information I can’t possibly collect alone.”

“And all my information, Doctor? All the things I glean while I stand in the rain pretending to be dull and staring at a corpse, what shall we do with them?”

“Dear girl, I’m a doctor,” Thornhollow said as they crested the hill to the asylum. “What else will we do with them but dissect them?”

FOURTEEN

Thornhollow said a good dissection must be done while the subject is still fresh. He brought a steaming pot into his office, the warm scent of coffee following while Grace chafed her hands together for warmth.

“I’d apologize for dragging you out on a night such as this,” the doctor said, “but this particular crime being as straightforward as it is affords the perfect opportunity for you to cut your teeth.”

Grace accepted a steaming mug and settled onto a leather chair. “Straightforward?”

“Yes, quite, as I’ll explain,” Thornhollow said as he rolled a chalkboard to the front of the office, knocking askew a few piles of books as he did. “I’d apologize for the mess as well, but it’s not likely I’ll ever clean the place.”

Grace looked around his office, which was rather a mess. Piles of books fought a tottering battle against gravity, unaided by their own weight whenever his relentless wanderings shook the warped floorboards. His coat was flung across the desk, and he’d set the coffeepot on top of it.

“Now to work, young Grace, before sleep claims you again.”

She shook her head to clear it, already lulled by the warmth of the fire. The loose end of her bandage had unwound itself and flapped against her cheek. She tucked it back in, her fingers adept at the movement, now so familiar. “I’m ready when you are, Doctor.”

“Good,” he said. “Tonight, a brief primer. We’ll see if you’re able to draw any conclusions.” He turned to the chalkboard, but his fingers played with the chalk as he spoke.

“Do you remember the Ripper killings in London a few years back?”

“I remember everyone talking about them,” Grace said. “But I don’t know much about the murders. Mother said it wasn’t a fit topic for me, and she wouldn’t allow the newspapers in the house for fear that . . .” Grace’s throat closed, as if a valve from her former life had turned, not allowing her to speak of it.

Thornhollow nodded, all his attention on her words, not her emotions. “I’m not surprised she’d shield you from such events. It was a nasty business. The papers would have you think it was a new type of person altogether, or a demon at work. But there are those of us who’ve seen dark things long before the Ripper took his nighttime walks. The only thing new in this story was a method that the police used in an attempt to find the killer.

“Most crime solving involves a very simple approach, Grace. Who? When? Why? How? That’s it. These questions are pivotal and have done their duty for a long time, and done it well. But in the case of the Ripper they weren’t doing the trick. Some scientists started looking at the behavior of the criminal before and after the crime, not just during, in order to collect information about who this person might be, what their profession is, their connection to the victim, even what their emotional state was like at different times before, during, and after the event. All these things can help establish a picture of your criminal well beyond the simple monosyllabic questions we’ve been asking for centuries.”

Grace sipped her coffee, letting the warmth soothe her vocal cords and the rough spot that had opened up when she spoke of the past. “That’s all very well, Doctor, but I have to point out that the Ripper was never caught, new method or not.”

Thornhollow stopped pacing and bit his cheek. “True. However, I became somewhat entranced by the idea and have spent years in study, gathering information about individuals that are known murderers so that we may have a collection of facts to draw from when we don’t know who we’re looking for. We’re drawing a picture, if you will, of what kind of man—or woman—would do certain deeds, and how they’d go about doing them.”

“So, you work backward, in a sense,” Grace said, her eyebrows drawing together as a headache began to form at her temples, pulsing against the bandage. “Instead of learning their biography after you catch them, you put together a story about who you think they are, and then use that to track them down.”

“Precisely.”

A flush of pride flowed through Grace at his word, a warmth in her belly not provided by the coffee.

“In the case of the Ripper, you’re right. He was never caught, but I believe the methodology is sound and have used it myself multiple times to aid the police in Boston. Coming to Ohio means I’m casting my net in a smaller pond, no doubt. Boston was so full of murders some nights, I hardly knew which crime scene to attend, but the hospital here is the most humane I’ve seen, and I grew weary of operating in darkness both day and night.”