Free The Last Nightingale by Anthony Flacco

dead fellow at Blackburn's feet was going to be the spoiler of certain ambitions held by Mayor Schmitz and Chief Dinan, by costing them the secrecy of this new trend with notes, and the potential of using secrecy to trick a suspect into confession. That would have allowed the mayor and the chief to come off as heroes for the newspapers. There was a lot of finger-pointing going on around City Hall; a major public relations event such as the capture of a wanton killer could have served both men well.
    Blackburn felt a sinking sensation as he acknowledged that another brazen murder on his watch was a guarantee of continual midnight assignments on the Barbary Coast. It tormented him to know that this time he was going to be in such a deep trench with the brass that he might go for many years and never dig his career back out. He was unaware of how hard his jaw was clenched while he stared down at the victim, until he felt the resulting pain.
    He bent close enough to read the handwriting on the small paper note. This one was neatly placed in one of the body's fists. The delicate slip of paper was perfectly smooth and unwrinkled, tucked between two of the dead fist's fingers.
    The world has loved me, made me welcome, everywhere I stayed But I left my wife to disgrace myself on women who are paid And nothing could have stopped me but The Blade.
    "At least this one rhymes," Blackburn muttered. So The Surgeon wanted everyone to know that this victim was a man who deserved harsh justice. The body expelled gas, as if to confirm that this one wasn't going to keep itself away from the newspapers. The Surgeon's new trademark doggerel "poems" would be public knowledge before long, making the Department brass unhappy in the extreme. Although the sun wasn't going to come up for another two hours, Blackburn already sensed that the day was going nowhere but downhill.
    He whistled down a mounted officer and told him to hurry back to the station house for a body recovery wagon. The officer cantered away, and then there was nothing left to do but stand guard over the scene.
    Shane's new job carried a lot of free time, especially during late night hours. So within his first couple of weeks at the Mission Dolores cemetery, he began trying to undo his maddening stammer by reading out loud. He had accidentally discovered that he could still speak clearly if he was reading, while he was silently going over an announcement on the church bulletin board. He began to mumble the words under his breath. It went on for a while before he realized what he was doing—something about having the words to read and follow allowed him to bypass his stutter. Not only did he speak clearly while reading aloud, it was effortless. With that realization, he began to practice his reading in earnest. He generally did it at night, but he would take time out for it anytime that nobody was around. It soothed him to be able to hear the sound of his own voice speaking clearly once again. It gave him a form of hope.
    Besides, he was seldom ready to go to sleep before sunrise, ever since the unthinkable thing. It felt safer to sleep in the daytime— harder for anybody to sneak up on him. Daylight also helped him to wake up faster whenever the familiar nightmares returned.
    But at night, alone and safe in the cemetery, Shane wrappedhimself in darkness like a warm wool blanket. It never occurred to him to think of the place as frightening. Instead, he paced among worn tombstones and practiced his reading by lantern light. While the words on the pages flowed easily from his mouth, he concentrated on impressing his brain with the sensation of speaking freely, hoping that the practice would eventually keep his speech from seizing up as soon as he went off of the page and tried to talk.
    Most of the time, Shane read without any real regard for the content of the article. Once in a while, though, a story captured his imagination. Especially the society pages, adorned as they were with