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At the bottom of a page, in a smaller and straighter script than the rest of the writing and in a darker ink, was a small set of numbers.
“Looks like it was added later,” Catcher said. “Clearly not the same handwriting as the others.”
“Agreed,” I said, and zoomed in closer.
There, in tidy block print, was the number of Mickey Riley’s grave along with a very different name.
We stared.
Our perpetrator hadn’t raised a gangster.
He’d raised a serial killer.
6
The Great Fire decimated Chicago in 1871. But like a wildflower in a scorched prairie, the city rose from the ashes into the Gilded Age. Railroads and stock yards boomed, and architecture became grand and modern. Opportunity drew workers into Chicago, into industry—and into the company towns the industrialists built for their new employees.
It also drew a murderer.
“Albert Padgett,” Ethan said as we reviewed a photograph of the thin-faced and dour-looking man who’d been dragged back into our world and had terrorized our House.
“He murdered fourteen people in one of the railroad towns,” Ethan said. “Men, women, and one child, during the summer of 1883. He killed indiscriminately until he was hunted down and shot by police.” He glanced at me. “It took several weeks before they realized the deaths were related, and by that time, the city had begun to panic. We were very aware the city was looking for a killer, and kept a very low profile.”
“I don’t get it,” Mallory said. “Why is Riley’s number on Padgett’s plot? Padgett died first and would have been in the ground longer.”
It only took a call to Mallory’s and Catcher’s new forensics friends to explain that. They hadn’t recognized the remains, and hadn’t found the alternate entry. But once Catcher pointed it out, they’d understood the reason for the discrepancy.
“Albert Padgett was buried in Almshouse Cemetery in 1883,” Catcher said when he’d finished his call. “He was buried in the plot in which we found him, under his own name. When Riley was killed in ’29, they put Riley’s name on Padgett’s grave.” Catcher looked at Ethan. “Any guesses why?”
“None,” Ethan said, obviously baffled.
“I’ll give you a hint: the Hudson Institute for Spiritualism.”
I didn’t recognize the name, but understanding widened Ethan’s eyes. “Oh.”
Mallory pursed her lips. “That sounds familiar. Why does that sound familiar?”
“Spiritualists believe they can communicate with those beyond the grave,” Ethan said. “Even though they don’t actually have magic. The movement was popular in the US in the nineteenth century. And there was a resurrection—excuse the pun—after World War I.”
“People wanted to talk to their loved ones,” I quietly said.
Catcher nodded. “That’s when the Hudson Institute was founded. You ever visit?” Catcher asked Ethan, who shook his head.
“They had no magic,” Ethan said simply. “They wanted to believe, certainly, but that was worthless without magic.”
“Or a darknet,” I threw in, and Catcher nodded.
“You think the spiritualists wanted to raise Padgett,” Mallory said. “And that’s why Cook County hid the location of his grave after he’d already been dead.”
“The spiritualists wanted to learn about heaven and hell,” Ethan said. “They believed summoning ghosts was the way to do it. It makes sense they’d want to talk to Padgett.”
“So Cook County took steps,” I said. “Riley was a low-level thug, so they figured it was fine to put his name in the records because no one would bother looking for him.”
