EBOOK
About
Fifteen murderers buried in the yard of the jail where they were hanged. A detective haunted by their crimes. The facts are true. Their stories might be.
Mysteries to be solved, lives to be imagined, crimes to be dissected.
From 1872 to 1930, fifteen murderers were buried in what had been the exercise yard of the old Toronto Don Jail. Their stories are interwoven with that of Detective George Porter, who sketches their faces in pen and ink as compulsively as he investigates their crimes.
Influenced by a childhood event that sparks a fascination with miscreants and the law, George Porter begins his career as an idealistic eighteen-year-old constable. Then he brushes the dirt from the face of a newborn babe, buried alive-how does that not change a man? The criminals he encounters might say he's a hard case, but just. Except when he isn't.
Bones in the Hole (A Prologue)
Before the police or news reporters arrived, before detectives and the coroner started their brief investigations, and before the documentary film crew showed up and started shooting, Glen shoved the safety lock lever downward, undid his seatbelt, keyed off the Komatsu diesel engine, opened the door and stepped down from the cab of the yellow excavator to investigate something peculiar he spotted down in the trench.
It was early on a September day in 2007, and as the sun rose and morning peeked around the abandoned building where he was working, golden light reflected off a dull, whitish-yellow object below. No one had arrived at the job site except for Glen and Luigi, the site foreman. Luigi always arrived before anyone else. He just sat in his van all day, smoked his little cigarillos, and drank cup after cup of black coffee poured from an orange thermos while slowly thumbing through Corriere Canadese. Glen walked around the front of the building to where he'd parked his beat-up Honda, opened the rear door and removed a shovel from the messy backseat. A streetcar rattled by, filled with commuters on their way to office towers downtown.
When he came back around the building with the shovel propped on his shoulder, Luigi, seated in his van, looked up from the newspaper and waved. Before stepping into the trench, Glen waved back. Down in the trench, the scent of damp soil filled his nostrils. The trench wasn't deep, under six feet. The hospital next door had hired them to tear up the asphalt parking lot at the rear of the old building and haul away the debris. Later, they would grade the surrounding area. Instead of being demolished, the plan was for the structure to be converted into the administrative wing of the hospital.
Glen recognized the object unearthed by the basket. He poked it lightly with the shovel, then bent to pick it up. In the three years he'd been operating the excavator, the part of the job Glen liked best was unearthing interesting objects. It happened rarely and was never anything of value. He'd dug up dozens of antique bottles. An empty, rusted safe. An outboard motor. A rifle. Old coins. Cutlery. Knife blades. An anchor. Stuff like that. The coolest find to date was a bunch of handblown glass marbles. This find was entirely different. He had dug up a human skull. Glen hadn't noticed Luigi looking down at him until he heard the Italian exhale loudly and shout, "Hey." Glen looked up into a plume of grey smoke to see Luigi crossing himself.
"Hey. Hey. What do you do? You leave those bones in the hole. Get out here." Instead, Glen examined the skull, about the size of a cantaloupe and the weight of a brass hammer. The bottom jaw was missing, and the top third sawed off. This was the first time he had ever seen a skeleton. Or part of a skeleton, anyway. More bones were scattered at his feet, along with what looked like shards of wood. He bent and picked up a crucifix clotted with soil. "I'm calling the police," said Luigi.
The police showed up. The area was cordoned o
Mysteries to be solved, lives to be imagined, crimes to be dissected.
From 1872 to 1930, fifteen murderers were buried in what had been the exercise yard of the old Toronto Don Jail. Their stories are interwoven with that of Detective George Porter, who sketches their faces in pen and ink as compulsively as he investigates their crimes.
Influenced by a childhood event that sparks a fascination with miscreants and the law, George Porter begins his career as an idealistic eighteen-year-old constable. Then he brushes the dirt from the face of a newborn babe, buried alive-how does that not change a man? The criminals he encounters might say he's a hard case, but just. Except when he isn't.
Bones in the Hole (A Prologue)
Before the police or news reporters arrived, before detectives and the coroner started their brief investigations, and before the documentary film crew showed up and started shooting, Glen shoved the safety lock lever downward, undid his seatbelt, keyed off the Komatsu diesel engine, opened the door and stepped down from the cab of the yellow excavator to investigate something peculiar he spotted down in the trench.
It was early on a September day in 2007, and as the sun rose and morning peeked around the abandoned building where he was working, golden light reflected off a dull, whitish-yellow object below. No one had arrived at the job site except for Glen and Luigi, the site foreman. Luigi always arrived before anyone else. He just sat in his van all day, smoked his little cigarillos, and drank cup after cup of black coffee poured from an orange thermos while slowly thumbing through Corriere Canadese. Glen walked around the front of the building to where he'd parked his beat-up Honda, opened the rear door and removed a shovel from the messy backseat. A streetcar rattled by, filled with commuters on their way to office towers downtown.
When he came back around the building with the shovel propped on his shoulder, Luigi, seated in his van, looked up from the newspaper and waved. Before stepping into the trench, Glen waved back. Down in the trench, the scent of damp soil filled his nostrils. The trench wasn't deep, under six feet. The hospital next door had hired them to tear up the asphalt parking lot at the rear of the old building and haul away the debris. Later, they would grade the surrounding area. Instead of being demolished, the plan was for the structure to be converted into the administrative wing of the hospital.
Glen recognized the object unearthed by the basket. He poked it lightly with the shovel, then bent to pick it up. In the three years he'd been operating the excavator, the part of the job Glen liked best was unearthing interesting objects. It happened rarely and was never anything of value. He'd dug up dozens of antique bottles. An empty, rusted safe. An outboard motor. A rifle. Old coins. Cutlery. Knife blades. An anchor. Stuff like that. The coolest find to date was a bunch of handblown glass marbles. This find was entirely different. He had dug up a human skull. Glen hadn't noticed Luigi looking down at him until he heard the Italian exhale loudly and shout, "Hey." Glen looked up into a plume of grey smoke to see Luigi crossing himself.
"Hey. Hey. What do you do? You leave those bones in the hole. Get out here." Instead, Glen examined the skull, about the size of a cantaloupe and the weight of a brass hammer. The bottom jaw was missing, and the top third sawed off. This was the first time he had ever seen a skeleton. Or part of a skeleton, anyway. More bones were scattered at his feet, along with what looked like shards of wood. He bent and picked up a crucifix clotted with soil. "I'm calling the police," said Luigi.
The police showed up. The area was cordoned o