I was fortunate in my examination of the notebook I had early taken, to discover an individual who was located nearby to the explosive Ms. Genest.
Captain Frederick Thompson, formerly of the United States Army, lived and worked in the town of Amherst, New Hampshire, a short distance from Hudson. The Captain was a graduate of the famed Virginia Military Institute, and he had served with distinction in the Great War. Why such a man would throw his lot in with murders and thieves was beyond my understanding, but I wanted to see if I could fathom the reasoning behind his course of action.
He was not immediately interested in speaking with me. In fact, he flew into a rage when he found me walking up the steps of his porch.
The man was a fighter. But he was a fighter with only a few years’ worth of experience.
I’ve been killing people since I was twelve, and since before the end of the 17th century.
I have little interest in torture, although I am adept at the brutal art. Captain Thompson did not believe me. Not until after I crushed his genitals with a meat tenderizer.
With that accomplished, he told me what I wanted to know. The next person I needed to speak with was a Mr. Robert Chambers, once again of Boston. Mr. Chambers, according to the good Captain, was in one of the top tiers in the movement.
I did not grant Captain Thompson a soldier’s death. He forfeited that when he partook in the murder of my friends.
Instead, I garroted him in his chair and left him in the gutter for the dogs to find.
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