The Ballad of James McKenna

Day Thirteen: Rise of the Antagonist

Day Thirteen
         Rise of the Antagonist
Word Count: 1006

June 1877

Jimmy was alone, blessedly alone, in the mechanical room, with only the sound of turning gears and ticking timepieces to keep him company. He needed this time to himself, truth be told, as exciting as solving cases normally was. And judging by the amount of work to be done here, Pinkerton's probably needed him there, as well, which was completely fine by him. After this last case, especially. A cult of scientifically-minded tyrants with aspirations of global domination had tried to recruit him to their cause and then to kill him when he declined to be a part of their inane cabal. Jimmy did not particularly like attempted murder, especially when he was the intended victim.

The lift, at least, had been in working order this time, so he'd been able to slip into his workroom without dealing with the gauntlet of questions and congratulations. Nate liked that sort of behavior, but then Nate had always been the social one. Jimmy only went out on occasion. And he didn't very much like the attention. He didn't work for the attention, he didn't feel the need for it. His job was to find and catch criminals, and then to come home and fix machines, not to accept accords and adulation. The rewards of the work were enough. And, truthfully, it made him happy to do it.

He missed his father greatly. Every time he sat down at his desk and slipped his workman's goggles over his face, a lump would rise in his throat and a fist would squeeze at his heart something fierce. He missed his mother and sisters, too, but nothing quite liked the way he missed his father. Working with his tools, however, melting and molding and shaping metal, they were the best moments in his life. The tightness always loosened, and the knot gave way to genuine joy, feeling and knowing that his father was with him.

Jimmy never knew how much time went by when he was like this, entranced by the song he heard in his head and melded with his hands, hour after hour. Apparently, he could go days without eating, only the sustenance of coffee and occasional drams of whiskey to keep him going for as long as it took for Nate to come find him. Nate always came and got him in the end, so Jimmy never bothered with paying attention to the clock on the wall. He just kept working, sweat dripping from his brow, stopping only to wash himself and change his shirt.

It was for this reason that Jimmy had no idea how long he'd been working when Nate came into the room, holding a file, only that it most certainly wasn't enough. He'd fixed the worst of the problems--the kind that would be costly to let continue--but over half the room was still in pieces or hadn't even made their way out of the closet. It could only have been a couple of days, then.

"Another case," Nate drawled. "You're...you're not going to like this one, Jimmy." Running a rough hand through his hair, Nate tossed the file onto the table and frowned. "He's a Negro murderer."

Jimmy sighed and pulled his goggles off of his head, using his thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes. He picked up the file and opened it, and immediately wished that he hadn't. A single photograph had been pinned to the packet. In it was a human; at least, Jimmy thought it was a human. It could have been a stag or a pig for all that it was recognizable as a human being. Blood was everywhere, skin flayed back to show flesh and bone, great chunks of which had been tossed in every direction imaginable for at least five feet around the body. That was where the picture ended. "What kind of monster...?"

Nate shook his head, still a bit green in the face. "And this is actually the fourth murder. All four have been Negroes, but this is the only picture we have available. The newspaper boys..." Nate paused while Jimmy cursed under his breath. He didn't like newspaper men. "The newspaper boys have taken to calling him the Tourist, because he always takes a single organ. He eviscerates them and then takes an organ, each time different. First was the brain, then the liver, and the lungs. This time it was the stomach."

Jimmy frowned. "Why are we being called in?"

"The President needs New York men. Them railway boys down in West Virginia are stirring up trouble and President Hayes thinks it might get ugly. But the governor is worried that the Negroes will rise up..."

A disgusted snort pushed its way from Jimmy's pursed lips. "Oh, I see. A murdering insane man is loose in the streets of New York and all we're worried about is whether or not the state militia can be mustered up on time to help Hayes put down a railroad strike that hasn't even happened yet? Look at this, Nate. This speaks of hate. But a single organ missing? Different organs, all vital? That bespeaks of planning, which would eliminate a crime of passion. This is a very, very dangerous man."

"Which is exactly why Pinkerton chose us. Not many of the men would consent to looking for a murderer of Negroes, Jimmy. And those that would have not your brains, or your compassion. This is a monstrous man, and a genius one. The Tourist is a monster, and we're to go monster hunting."

Jimmy licked his lips and nodded. "If we're the only ones who can do it, than we'll do it. It must be big if Pinkerton is willing to let these remain unfixed for months on end."

Nate nodded. "It is. Maybe not for reasons you like, but it is."

"Then off we go." Jimmy stood. "The Tourist awaits. And so do his potential victims, who we've got to save if we can."

"Always such the hero, Jimmy. Come on, let's go."