“Hmm.” Inez tucked that away for later consideration. “Do you think his death was random? He was attacked on his way home or some such?”
Borg gave her a shrewd look. “He was down in this area many times. He was not a fool. He went after trouble sometimes, but it never caught him by surprise. Not that I saw.”
“I have one more question,” said Inez, adding, “I know you must get back to work.”
“Ja, I do. In the office, they are counting the minutes I am out here. If I want to be paid for them, I will need to make up this little break.” His cigarette was so short Inez feared for his mustache.
So, Inez asked the question she had been wondering about for some time. “How did you recognize him, at the bridge? His face was…”
“Beaten in.” Borg dropped the remnant of his cigarette—no more than a paper sliver and a tiny tobacco shred—onto the boardwalk and ground it out with his boot. “His clothes. Sunday night, he wore a fancy waistcoat with flowers and a striped jacket. I remember, because he was so cheerful and his clothes were too. I recognized the vest and jacket when they pulled him out.”
Chapter Twenty-four
De Bruijn absorbed what the police surgeon had told him. “So, he was beaten with a heavy object, but you are fairly certain it was not a blackjack or a billy club.”
The physician raised tangled eyebrows. “Billy club? Surely you’re not suggesting that one of San Francisco’s finest, one of our own boys in blue was involved.”
“Not at all,” said de Bruijn, although the thought had crossed his mind. He knew full well, the law had no great love for union activists, given the sandlot riots of a few years previous in which members of the Workingmen’s Party and various unemployed clashed with the police force. Memories would still burn bright concerning those times for those who had been involved.
He switched focus, broadening his thinking to encompass what heavy objects might be close to hand on a wharf late at night or easily carried from somewhere else. “Perhaps the weapon was a crowbar, a chain, a pike pole, or a bosun’s cosh.”
The police surgeon scratched his wiry gray beard, which could have done double duty as a bird’s nest. “No, nothing like that. The object would have had a broad, flat surface but also fairly sharp edges. I considered a brick, perhaps.”
He raised his hand, palm up, as if holding one. De Bruijn noted that although the physician’s face was deeply lined, his hands were still smooth, the hands of a young man.
The surgeon continued, “There is a brick wharf in the area.”
“Was he perhaps killed on the brick wharf?”
“Not necessarily. You look around any of those piers, and you’ll find piles of bricks, pieces of lumber, various heavy metal objects on all of them. All I can say is since he was found by Long Bridge, he had to have been placed in the canal close to that vicinity or a bit upstream. The so-called ‘water’ in that channel is more of the nature of slow-moving sludge. He had not been in the water long, certainly not longer than one night. And he was dead before he went into the canal. I am certain of that. Absolutely no fluid in the lungs.”
De Bruijn nodded. “Perhaps his attacker used a brick. A convenient weapon. Which means the attack would have occurred somewhere close to or on the brick wharf. The body would have been dragged or carried to the edge of the pier, or simply rolled off. I would imagine he was placed in the water close to wherever he was killed.”
“That makes sense to me, but you best talk to a detective about your conjectures in those directions. I will say that he was hit not just once, but many times. Twice on the back of the head, many times on the face. If the point was to kill him, the blows to the crown would have sufficed. It’s almost as if the attacker wanted to obliterate his face, his identity, so we would not be able to tell who he was.”
Which was, de Bruijn thought, almost exactly what would have happened. Jamie Monroe’s true identity as son of a wealthy capitalist might have remained hidden if not for Mrs. Sweet imparting information about the birthmark to Mrs. Stannert. The irony of the surgeon’s remark did not escape de Bruijn. Young Gallagher had come to San Francisco to forge a new identity and divorce himself from who he had been. He had succeeded in doing so in life, and nearly so in death.
“It’s a bit of a mystery,” continued the physician. “I am sorry, Mr. de Bruijn, that I cannot offer more in the way of information to you or your client regarding the young man’s death. At the time, we had no idea who he was and doubted we would be able to gain an identification, given the state of his body, so the autopsy was brief.”
He clasped his hands behind his head and his focus wandered over de Bruijn’s head to the wall of books and diplomas opposite. “At least, God, fate, or circumstances have made it possible for him to return home for a proper burial, as opposed to a final resting place in our pauper’s cemetery.” He stood, and de Bruijn did likewise. They shook hands, and the doctor added, “I hope you find out who brought this upon him.”
“Thank you for your time.” De Bruijn gathered his hat and walking stick. “I have spoken with the police chief. He referred me to Detective Lynch, who is handling the case. The detective was previously a patrolman in the area, so knows the area well. I shall talk with him next.”
Privately, de Bruijn didn’t think he would get much from the detective. For one thing, Harry Gallagher had made it plain he did not
