On September 27, 1896 there was a question on the front pages of every newspaper in New York City. Who murdered Edward Winter, publisher extarordinaire? He was equal to the great barons of the gilded age but suffered an ignominious death. Sadly, few mourned his loss. Who had time to mourn when so much money was at stake; when so many secrets needed to be kept hidden and when so many lies were waiting to be told? Mourning wasn't the concern of Inspector...