I regret to say that Elizabeth Stanton of Brooklyn was the first I could not question directly.
Somehow, she learned of the deaths of her colleagues and was in the middle of taking steps to avoid the same fate when I found her leaving her workplace. She was employed as a truck driver, an occupation she had held since the conclusion of the Great War.
I called out to her, and when she turned around, she put five rounds into my chest. When I drew my pistol, her face paled, and she blew her own brains out in the street.
It took me hours to recuperate, then another two hours to discover where she had lived. I broke into her apartment and searched it diligently. When her two roommates returned home, I had not yet discovered the information I sought. Her roommates, Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Shilsler, were members of the same organization. Specifically, they, like the late Elizabeth Stanton, were part of the logistical team which had moved the explosives.
The women of the organization, I discovered, were made of stronger stuff than the men.
Mrs. Shilsler didn’t utter a single word during the entire time I interrogated her. She died, in fact, without speaking to me, despite the horrific methods I used.
Mr. Shilsler, on the other hand, wept like a babe the instant the knife broke the skin of his forearm. He told me where to find the information I needed, and who the next link in the chain was.
After forcing Mr. Shilsler to write a long and mournful suicide note, one which explained the reason why he tortured and murdered his beloved wife, I assisted him with his own hanging.
With two bodies in the apartment, I took my leave of the place and planned the next steps to get to Norwich, Connecticut, as quickly as possible.
I needed to speak with Shawn Stanton, Elizabeth’s older brother.
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