Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness (15 page)

"Maybe for the man who brought down Al Capone."

Was it Ness 's imagination, or was Matowitz enjoying this subtle shift in their relationship? In the past, Ness had always held the dominant hand. Ness might come to him for help, for manpower, but given that he was the mayor's specially deputized agent with an increasingly high profile, Matowitz didn't have much choice in the matter. The midnight raids were in Ness's jurisdiction, totally foreign to what Matowitz normally did. But this was different. Ness was entering Matowitz's playground, the world of homicide detection. And Matowitz was distressingly nonforthcoming.

"Who have you got working on it?"

"Peter Merylo. Best damn detective on the force. Locked up more men than you can count. We're not just talking about rumrunners. We're talking seriously dangerous killers."

Ness wasn't nearly dumb enough to miss that jab. "Then why hasn't he locked up this one?"

"Because we have no clues."

"You've identified two victims."

"And that's a miracle." Matowitz reached into his top desk drawer and withdrew a brown file. "These victims have been transients, lowlifes. Scum of the earth. Not folks with a lot of friends or family. No one keeping an eye on them. We think maybe it was some kinda mobland rubout."

Ness shook his head. "I've been up against the mob for a long time. And I've seen the remains of some grisly executions. But I've never seen them hack a body to bits. That's too violent, even for the mob. Might violate their twisted sense of honor."

"Then what's your theory?"

Was this man still bitter that the first raid on The Thomas Club went bad? Or that he wasn't there for the one that succeeded? "There must be some connection among the victims. Maybe they all knew something that someone didn't want to get out. Maybe it was a revenge killing. Someone was sure as heck mad about something."

"Revenge for what?"

"I can't know that till I know what they all had in common. Maybe they all knew the thief. Andrassy."

"Possible that Flo Polillo did. She seems to have gotten around. If you know what I mean."

"Maybe it was some kind of sordid love triangle that went bad." His voice dropped. "Seriously bad." Problem was, even as Ness said it, he didn't believe it. Just didn't sound right. There had been jilted and betrayed lovers since the dawn of time. But he'd never heard of one responding by hacking up bodies. He'd never heard of anyone doing anything like this in his entire life. No matter how he tried to think it through, it just didn't make any sense. "With all the science we have at our disposal, surely we can come up with some kind of useful lead."

"Not so far. And we've got a pretty smart coroner. He's a college man." Matowitz made a sniffing noise. "Like you. You're welcome to talk to him. He'll be back in his office this afternoon."

Ness checked his watch. "Not possible. I've got about two hundred traffic lights to get up and running. And a training session for the Accident Prevention Squad that starts at-"

There was a knocking at the door. He hoped it wasn't a reporter. He wasn't in the mood.

The door opened and Chamberlin poked his head through. "Boss?"

Ness held up his hand. "Can it wait? I'm busy."

"It's about last night's raid. I wanted to tell you what happened."

"Another midnight raid?" Matowitz looked at Ness. "And you didn't go yourself? What has the world come to?"

Ness frowned. "I had an... engagement. With my wife."

Matowitz's thin lips spread. "I understand. There are bosses, and then there are bosses."

Ness did his best to hide what he was feeling.

Chamberlin cut through the silence, alleviating the tension, at least temporarily. "Can I tell you about The Harvard Club?"

Matowitz's eyebrows rose. The Harvard Club was a notorious gambling and booze joint in Mayfield Heights run by one of the top men in the Mayfield Road Mob, "Gameboy" Miller. Now that The Thomas Club was closed, it was probably the top joint in the city.

"Did they know you were coming?" Ness asked.

"No. But they were ready, just the same. Bouncers met us at the door, armed with submachine guns. Refused to honor the warrant. Then Miller himself came to the door and said, and I quote, 'Anybody comes in gets their-um-their head knocked off Deleting the colorful adjective."

"And you showed him the warrant?"

"Twice. I didn't want a bloodbath. I decided to retreat."

Ness laid his hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing. You didn't have enough men. We'll go back tonight."

Matowitz rose. "I can't order my men to get mowed down by those tommy-gun-toting thugs."

"Then I'll ask for volunteers. There are still some officers who don't like seeing duly appointed officers of the law get pushed around by mob punks."

"I don't know if I can allow that."

"Are you kidding?" Ness gripped the edges of the man's desk. "This is the most brazen defiance of the law I've ever seen. If you let something like this go unchecked, soon there won't be any law at all. We have to show them we mean business. We have to show them there's still law in this town." He turned back to his assistant. "You understand what I'm saying?"

A boyish grin spread across Chamberlin's face. "I'll begin rounding up volunteers immediately."

"Good man. We'll go tonight." Ness followed him to the door.

Matowitz did not appear particularly sorry to see him go. "And the Torso Murderer?"

"Get your men out there pounding the streets for clues. Let me know if they find anything." Ness grabbed his fedora. "I've got a job to do."

Merylo stared down at the filthy head protruding from the right trouser leg. It was lying on its left side, lips parted, as if the victim died in a moment of surprise-or terror. Its eyes were closed, and he silently thanked God for that small favor.

He had really hoped it was over. He would rather have caught the filthy killer, but he was willing to settle for having the murders come to an end. The papers had ceased running their lurid panic-inducing stories filled with more speculation than fact. Cleveland was gearing up for the convention season, the Great Lakes Exposition, the American Legion, and all the others. Some people had forgotten about the murders.

But not Merylo. He had never forgotten, and he had never stopped tracking down any lead he thought might possibly pay off. Yes, he had hoped that the killer had given it up, or moved on, or been rubbed out.

But he doubted it. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he had never been able to make himself believe it. His gut told him this butcher would kill again. And his gut had been right.

His reverie was interrupted when he heard a sentence that had become all too familiar since this case began.

"We found the rest of him."

Zalewski beamed as if he had won a Kewpie doll at the county fair. "It's not far. And it's intact."

"Show me." They began to walk north of the willow tree, in the general direction of Jackass Hill. "Have the men found anything else?"

"Two shirts, both bloody, one torn at the shoulder."

"Two?"

"Right."

"Like... the victim might've been wearing two shirts at once?"

"Not really, no. One's casual, one's a dress shirt."

"Oh." Merylo didn't need a detailed explanation to tell him what that implied. "What else?"

"Pair of men's shorts. Oxford shoes, size seven and a half, laces tied together and a pair of socks stuffed inside, striped and orange at the top."

"Orange?"

"It's fashionable these days, sir."

"Maybe in your neighborhood. Anything else?"

"A leather belt. A dirty cap. Seems like it's been soaked in something oily."

"Like maybe the motor oil we found with the other corpse?"

"Maybe, yeah."

"Anything that might lead us to the killer?"

"Well, the Bertillon boys want to run tests, but..."

Merylo gave him a look. Zalewski had been working with him long enough now to have a sense of when they had something and when they didn't.

"No," Zalewski said quietly. "Probably not. But the corpse is interesting."

"In what way?"

They reached a spot perhaps a thousand feet from where the head had been discovered, just east of the 55th Street Bridge. Merylo could see part of the body lying on its side, partially obscured by twigs. "It's illustrated."

"Excuse me?"

"You know. Tattooed."

Merylo took a step closer, even thought the stench made him want to move in the opposite direction. "How many?"

"We found six."

Sure enough, Merylo spotted two flags tattooed on the left arm, not far from a heart, an anchor, and perhaps more interestingly, the letters. W.C.G. On the left shoulder, he discovered a full-color butterfly, wings unfurled.

"Nice," Merylo muttered. "But I only count five."

"You missed Jiggs."

"Would you please speak English?"

"Jiggs. You know, from the comics. Bringing Up Father."

"Never read it."

"You don't read the comics?"

"I don't read newspapers at all. They depress me. Especially when I notice how much they get wrong. So show me this... what was it?"

"Jiggs. And it's not an it. It's a he." Zalewski used a twig to subtly move the lie of the corpse's leg to reveal the final tattoo, on the left calf. It was a cartoon drawing of a middle-aged man wearing a checkered vest and tie, his hair sticking up and a cigar in his mouth.

"That's Jiggs?"

"Yup."

"Why would anyone want Jiggs tattooed on their calf?"

"Beats me. Guess they like him. Maybe they... you know, sympathize with him. He brought himself up from nothing to something, you know."

"It's a Horatio Alger story."

"Uh... yeah. I guess. Jiggs was an Irish immigrant, a bricklayer, till he wins a fortune in a sweepstakes. His snob wife and daughter keep trying to 'bring him up,' you know, teach him how to live the good life. Be rich. Socialize with the swells."

Merylo squinted. "But Jiggs just wants to live like he did back in simpler times. Eat the food his Irish mama cooked. Run around with the lads."

"Exactly! So you have read it."

"No. But I've seen the musical, The Rising Generation. And I'm betting the guy who writes Bringing Up Father has, too."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Never mind. The question is, why would anyone tattoo this character on his leg?" He paused. "Or perhaps a better question is, why would this make anyone want to kill him?"

"You think he was killed because of his tattoo?"

"Probably not." Merylo hesitated again. "Still... is this comic derogatory of the Irish?"

"Not really."

"Anybody else? Italians? Mobsters? Rich people?"

"Not so much."

Merylo sighed heavily. "Then maybe we should focus on the letters. They could be initials."

"For who?"

"For about a million people, I suspect. But it's something. I want you to start running those initials through every list we've got. Criminal records. The phone book. Public agencies."

"But that could take-"

"Then you'd better get started, hadn't you?"

"Yes, sir." Zalewski made a small salute, then skittered off.

"One other thing."

Zalewski stopped. "Yes?"

"Tell Pearce I want him to clean that head up real nice-then put it on display."

"What?"

"You heard me. In the morgue. Front office."

"But-isn't that kind of-"

"Yes, it is. But we can't solve this case unless we identify more of these victims. You run with the letters. We'll tell the papers the head is on display and people are welcome to take a look."

"Who would want to do that?"

"You might be surprised. People are attracted to the grotesque."

"What if Pearce says no?"

"He won't. He'll love the idea. All those people coming to his office, like he's the center of the investigation. Sherlock Holmes with a medical degree. He'll probably sit out front and sign autographs."

"If you say so."

"I do. So get to it, Zalewski. I want that head out as soon as possible. Drive as fast as you can." He held up a finger. "But of course, pay close attention to our safety director's traffic lights. We don't want anything dangerous to happen."

Zalewski departed. Merylo turned back to the headless corpse lying among the weeds and sticks. Something about this bothered him, and it wasn't just that cigar-chomping cartoon character, either. The head had been neatly wrapped in the trousers and carefully-almost tenderly-placed under the willow tree, just as Flo Polillo's body parts had been wrapped in newspaper and burlap bags, then placed in baskets. At the same time, the body, only a short walk away-assuming this was the body that went with the head-had been carelessly, almost disdainfully dumped among the tallgrass weeds and bramble. Two entirely differently methods.

Could there be two different killers? Or more? That would explain a lot, but Merylo didn't believe it. His gut told him that was wrong- and his brain did as well. If there had been more than one person involved, by this time, someone would have talked. No, they were looking for one man.

One man-with two completely different personalities. Was such a thing possible? He remembered what Pearce had said, back when he was talking about that British nut and his friend the alienist, the guy who could explain crazy behavior. There was definitely something weird about this case...

No, he told himself, rising, there was an explanation for all this. A logical explanation. He might not have the slightest idea what that explanation was. But he knew it existed. And given enough time, he would figure it out.