Different Times, Different Crimes by Kathy Lynn Emerson

Author:Kathy Lynn Emerson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, historical, fiction, crime, short stories
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2017-06-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE KENDUSKEAG KILLER

The body fetched up against the pilings of the covered bridge at the upper end of Harlow Street.

A physician, as well as one of Bangor, Maine’s coroners, Dr. Benjamin Northcote was accustomed to grievous wounds. As remains went, these were less stomach-turning than most. He gave the corpse a cursory examination, fully expecting to determine that the dead man had drowned.

He probably had … but that did not explain the oddly-configured hole in his back.

Once the deceased had been loaded into a wagon for the trip to Ben’s surgery, he returned to the bank of Kenduskeag Stream to study the rapidly moving current below. With the first spring thaw of 1888 had come flooding, and on this bright morning in early April, the water level was still high.

A short distance downstream the Kenduskeag joined the Penobscot River. Upstream there were rapids. Every year about this time some damn fool got drunk, tried to paddle a canoe through them, and ended up going over Six Mile Falls upside down and backwards. The fortunate ones came away from the experience with nothing worse than a good soaking. Ill-fated paddlers were thrown out onto the rocks and more than a few had died as a result.

That was not what had caused this man’s death.

Constable Mayhew, one of Bangor’s nine newly-elected city marshals, came up beside Ben. “Had a watch and some change on him,” he said in a laconic drawl. “Musta been a suicide.”

They shared a humorless smile at the familiar rule of thumb: bodies found floating in Kenduskeag Stream or the Penobscot River with empty pockets were assumed to be victims of robbery and murder; those who still had their possessions had usually taken their own lives … or fallen into the water and drowned while under the influence of drink.

“Did you notice the way the dead man was dressed?” Ben asked. “His clothes were in every particular the attire of a woodsman—gray kersey trousers, two red flannel shirts worn one on top of the other, and high spiked boots. The only thing missing was the little black felt hat. If he’d been found in the Penobscot, I’d have wondered if he might have perished in a log drive.”

The river drivers—called “Penobscot men” in these parts and “Bangor Tigers” by people from away—were a breed apart from ordinary woodsmen. They risked their lives countless times every year to get their heavy, slippery product to market. Ben knew that the days of bringing twenty-foot pine logs to Bangor sawmills were long past, but even the four-foot lengths of spruce used to make pulp for paper could do a lot of damage if a man slipped and fell into the water among them.

“Too early,” Mayhew said. “The drive hasn’t started yet. Besides, nowadays, by the time they get to the last stretch before Bangor, all the logs are lashed together into rafts and piloted in.”

Although Ben had lived near the Penobscot River all his life and could tell when the spruce arrived

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