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Authors: Sean McMullen
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he needed a smoke to steady his nerves after what I had done to him. I expected him to have one of those long-stemmed clay pipes, the sort that you can still find fragments of beside the Thames. As I approached the outer door I realised that something was wrong, however. There was the smell of sulphur on the air.
I had never dreamed how much smoke could be produced by a single gunshot. Mister Brandel was lying on the floor, on his back. His wig had landed in a urinal, and I now saw that his head was shaved. There was a neat hole, blackened at the edges, in his right temple. The exit wound took up most of the left side of his skull. In his right hand was a flintlock pistol, its barrel still smoking, and in his left was his beaver hat. The ball had continued on to shatter a mirror.
I was the first aid officer for the evening shift, but this was well beyond my training or experience. Workplace First Aid 2.1 does not prepare students for someone blowing his brains out with a half inch lead ball. I forced myself to go down on one knee and put my fingers to the body's neck. The skin was warm, but there was no pulse. I stood, touching nothing, then recorded the scene with my phone camera.
The library was closed as a crime scene while the police and coroner did their investigations. Mister Brandel immediately became a source of considerable mystery to them. He had no identity whatsoever, aside from what was in the folder. In the weeks that followed the police found no match with his DNA, and no match on his key facial elements. The Costume Suicide Man, as he came to be known, was featured on the television news and even spawned a few websites.
When the police first arrived I was quizzed about what books he wanted. Because he had borrowed nothing, he had needed no library card—and thus had not needed to show any ID. Only my memory contained a record of his requests.
“Why would history drive him to suicide?” asked the detective as I showed him the books that the dead man had been reading.
“I can't say. He seemed as if he wanted to live in the past, like with all his period clothing.”
“Oh yeah, it's amazing how he got the costume, the weapon, everything, so accurate. Like I study this sort of thing for a hobby, you know, I'm into historical re-enactment. That body in the gents is authentic, right down to the tooth decay. Even his costume has the sort of wear that only comes with years of use. My redcoat uniform is just like that, proper wear from years of use.”
“He had a particular interest in the poet Elizabeth Crossen,” I said, pointing out the five books that lay open alongside his leather folder.
“And apart from reading the books he never used any library facilities?”
“He never so much as reserved a book.”
There had been chaos following the alarm being raised over Mister Brandel's suicide. Very conscientiously I had removed the tapes for the monitor cameras that covered the information desk and front door, then locked them away for the police to examine. The new tapes did not go in until after I had substituted our library's biographies of Elizabeth Crossen for those that Mister Brandel had just read. These found their way into my backback behind the information desk. Naturally the staff were badly shaken by what had happened, and it was two hours before the police allowed us to leave. As I walked for the Underground station I thought of Harriet, and of how much I owed her.
The very first thing I did when I got home was to light a fire. Next I got out the scotch and poured myself a generous measure. By the end of my second glass the fire was burning hot enough for my needs. Into the flames went a stolen accessions stamp from the Nunhead library, and as this burned I began ripping up the biographies of Elizabeth Crossen and feeding the pages into the flames. I was working on the last book when Harriet phoned me. She had heard about the suicide on the news.
“Whoever he was, he imagined
I had never dreamed how much smoke could be produced by a single gunshot. Mister Brandel was lying on the floor, on his back. His wig had landed in a urinal, and I now saw that his head was shaved. There was a neat hole, blackened at the edges, in his right temple. The exit wound took up most of the left side of his skull. In his right hand was a flintlock pistol, its barrel still smoking, and in his left was his beaver hat. The ball had continued on to shatter a mirror.
I was the first aid officer for the evening shift, but this was well beyond my training or experience. Workplace First Aid 2.1 does not prepare students for someone blowing his brains out with a half inch lead ball. I forced myself to go down on one knee and put my fingers to the body's neck. The skin was warm, but there was no pulse. I stood, touching nothing, then recorded the scene with my phone camera.
The library was closed as a crime scene while the police and coroner did their investigations. Mister Brandel immediately became a source of considerable mystery to them. He had no identity whatsoever, aside from what was in the folder. In the weeks that followed the police found no match with his DNA, and no match on his key facial elements. The Costume Suicide Man, as he came to be known, was featured on the television news and even spawned a few websites.
When the police first arrived I was quizzed about what books he wanted. Because he had borrowed nothing, he had needed no library card—and thus had not needed to show any ID. Only my memory contained a record of his requests.
“Why would history drive him to suicide?” asked the detective as I showed him the books that the dead man had been reading.
“I can't say. He seemed as if he wanted to live in the past, like with all his period clothing.”
“Oh yeah, it's amazing how he got the costume, the weapon, everything, so accurate. Like I study this sort of thing for a hobby, you know, I'm into historical re-enactment. That body in the gents is authentic, right down to the tooth decay. Even his costume has the sort of wear that only comes with years of use. My redcoat uniform is just like that, proper wear from years of use.”
“He had a particular interest in the poet Elizabeth Crossen,” I said, pointing out the five books that lay open alongside his leather folder.
“And apart from reading the books he never used any library facilities?”
“He never so much as reserved a book.”
There had been chaos following the alarm being raised over Mister Brandel's suicide. Very conscientiously I had removed the tapes for the monitor cameras that covered the information desk and front door, then locked them away for the police to examine. The new tapes did not go in until after I had substituted our library's biographies of Elizabeth Crossen for those that Mister Brandel had just read. These found their way into my backback behind the information desk. Naturally the staff were badly shaken by what had happened, and it was two hours before the police allowed us to leave. As I walked for the Underground station I thought of Harriet, and of how much I owed her.
The very first thing I did when I got home was to light a fire. Next I got out the scotch and poured myself a generous measure. By the end of my second glass the fire was burning hot enough for my needs. Into the flames went a stolen accessions stamp from the Nunhead library, and as this burned I began ripping up the biographies of Elizabeth Crossen and feeding the pages into the flames. I was working on the last book when Harriet phoned me. She had heard about the suicide on the news.
“Whoever he was, he imagined
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