Emmi’s Mind, New York City, New York, 1895
Snow crunched beneath a woman’s heeled boots. The wind whipped at her mourning black dress as the woman wearing it crossed a bustling street. On the far side, a boisterous crowd gathered in front of an office building door. An officer was trying and failing to control it. She slipped across the threshold, but the dutiful cop caught sight of her and took hold of her arm. “This area is off-limits, lady.”
“Unhand me, Sir,” she wrenched her arm from his grip. “Do you not know who I am?”
“I have the sneaking suspicion you’re going to tell me.”
“You suspect correct, officer. Perhaps you should be an detective.”
“Emmeline, at last, you’ve arrived. Where in hell have you been? I sent for you hours ago,” a mildly perturbed voice called out from a staircase not far from where she stood. “Devlin, leave her be. I’ll assume responsibility for her.”
The officer looked Emmeline in the eye, “Yes, Sir.”
Jacob led her through the upstairs hallway and into a room near the back. An office with a desk near the window to make use of the light. There among a pile of books laid a man. Sanguine fluid had saturated the left breast of his shirt and vest, a torn hole at the epicenter of the stain.
“The victim was --,” Jacob began.
Emmeline’s brow tightened, “Thomas Harrington, I haven’t a clue how I know.”
“Are you saying you are a suspect?”
“I detest the implication.”
“It is entirely possible,” the detective’s eyes raised from the victim and fell on Emmeline. His visage begged for an explanation of her apparent perfidy.
Her voice remained poised, “Not impossible, Jacob. However, highly unlikely. Never laid eyes on the man. Murder would be difficult to argue.”
“But you knew his name.”
She knelt beside the body. “His name is on the nameplate beside the doorbell.”
“Of course,” he submitted. “Why do you do that?”
“I have to get my amusement from somewhere,” she chuckled.
Emmeline unbuttoned Harrington’s vest and shirt and peeled it away from the wound. Her head tilted as she examined the inlet. Light glinted off a metallic grey-white material inside. She raised her head above the desktop. Her eyes darted.
She caught sight of gold nib hiding like a snake beneath a pile of papers and clambered for it with disregard for them. Once back at Harrington’s side, Emmeline examined the pen, “Aikin-Lambert.” She looked down at the man’s glazed eyes, “A gift from an affluent patron?”
Her attention returned to the object inside the wound. With the pen angled, she pushed it into Harrington’s chest, hooked the object, and excised it. Dangling from the nib was a ring. After wiping the blood from it, Emmeline took it to the window. The lustrous metal held in her fingertips shown brightly.
“What is it?” Jacob asked.
“Your projectile,” She tossed it to him. Judging from its weight, I’m quite certain it’s tungsten. “About thirty-five bucks worth.”
“For a few pennies, I could purchase a cartridge for my Colt.”
“It’s not about the cost, Jacob. It’s about the statement.”
“What’s it saying, Emmeline?”
“The abuse of such a fine metal and the technology to bring it to bear speaks of a cold intelligence unconstrained by moral sense. Given Mister Harrington’s profession, a bail recovery agent, any number of people could have motive to perpetrate the evil you see before you. Few, perhaps none, would have the wherewithal, nor the wit to accomplish it. Yet, it has been done.”
Jacob stooped to put the papers back on the desk. His eye caught a name on the paperwork, “Emmeline, I see a name on this paperwork, a Sarah Avey. She’s listed as an agent. Do you think she could have done this?”
“We haven’t had any evidence ruling her out.”
He slipped a card from the desktop, “I found a telegram dated a week ago. ‘From Watertown. Stopped to water Oria and to luncheon. Locals had seen William Barkley headed north towards the St. Lawrence on foot. Leaving for there post haste. S. A.’”
“A week, that’s plenty of time to apprehend Barkley and return to Brooklyn. He should be in the Tombs by now.”

After the body had been taken to the morgue, Emmeline and Jacob drove to the Halls of Justice. The gray granite slabs donated by the former Bridewell Prison gave the exterior a foreboding feeling.
“This place gives me a fright,” Jacob said.
“You can stay in the buggy,” Emmeline retorted.
“And how would that look on a gentleman?” He asked as he took his badge from his jacket pocket and presented it to the guard at the gate. Inside, they hitched the horse and entered.
It wasn’t any warmer inside. The warden led them to Barkley’s cell. A mountain of a man. He sat quiet with fresh bandages on his face and a couple of splints on his fingers. “Hey, Barkley! You got visitors,” the warden called.
“Mister Barkley, I’m Detective Jacob McBride. Looks like you tried to flee to Canada.”
“I would’ve made it if it wasn’t for that bounty hunter.”
“Looks like she did a number on you.”
“Where’d she learn to fight like that, anyway?”
Jacob shrugged the question, “We’re done here. I just wanted to see him with my own eyes.”