Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness (24 page)

He looked Ness straight in the eye and held out his hand. "I'm in, Eliot. For whatever you need."

"Thank you, Jim."

"And me," said The Architect.

"And me."

And then they all followed, one after the other, every single one of them, giving Ness an even better showing than he had hoped for. He would have more than enough money now. He would be able to finance six, maybe even eight operatives.

He would contact them immediately and put them to work. There was no time to waste.

This evening, he had received another postcard. At his newly rented apartment.

Merylo stared down at the dry creek. Debris littered the surface-discarded metalworks, train tracks, paper, clothes, refuse of all kinds. But no body parts. Not a one.

"How long did it take them to drain the creek?" Merylo asked quietly.

"Three days. Cost a fortune, too."

"And nothing to show for it." Merylo smashed his hat between his hands. First they had brought in a high-pressure pump to stir up the water. Then they sent in divers. Then they tried ceiling hooks again. They managed to snag the right thigh, but no head. They built makeshift bridges from wooden planks to extend the reach of the hooks, without avail. Another diving operation produced nothing. Even the volunteer foot soldiers Merylo sent out produced no results.

All within view of the teeming spectators. According to the
Cleveland News,
over one hundred thousand people had come to watch the operation at some point. To watch the police fail. Again.

"The chief won't be happy about this," Zalewski said. "Especially getting civilians involved. And since it was done on your order..."

" Ness told me to do everything I could think of to catch this killer," Merylo replied. "So I did. If we'd found a head, and could identify it, we'd be a lot closer to catching our murderer."

"Pearce says by this time, even if you found a head, it would be so decomposed-"

"Never mind what Pearce says." Merylo clenched his teeth together, trying to suppress his anger. "No, I take that back. What does the good doctor say? About the victim, I mean. Based on the parts we've been able to locate."

Zalewski took out his notebook and flipped it open. "Vic weighed about 145 pounds and was something like five feet ten. Maybe thirty years old. Brown hair. Head was cut severed from the body between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, in two cuts."

"Not his best job," Merylo grunted, "but still admirable."

"The torso was cut between the third and fourth lumbar vertebrae. Cut the stomach and kidney. Vic was emasculated." Zablewski paused. "That means his, er, things were, you know, cut off and-"

"I know what it means. Go on."

"No hesitation marks. Examination of the heart shows that it was still beating when the dismemberment began. Final conclusion: 'Probable murder by decapitation and subsequent sectioning of body.' "

"Probable? Did he imagine we thought the guy might've committed suicide? By cutting himself into bits? While he was still alive?"

"Hey, I'm just reporting what the doctor said. Don't kill the messenger."

"Right. Sorry."

Zalewski turned away from the pond. "Did you see the
News this morning?"

There was a slight twitch in Merylo's eye as he responded. "Of course not."

Zalewski pulled it out of his pocket and read. "The killer is probably a muscular man. He has expert knowledge of human anatomy. The incisions of his knife were clean and were made in each case without guesswork. He may have gathered his knowledge of anatomy as a medical student. Or it is possible that he is a butcher."

"Like that's news." Merylo rubbed his chin. "Bad time to be a Cleveland medical student. Particularly if you're a little odd-looking."

"Yeah. I like the way they conclude that the killer is either a medical student or a butcher. As if they were basically the same thing."

"But never a doctor," Merylo said, holding up a finger. "Never a surgeon. Even though that would be the obvious conclusion to draw from the killer's anatomical knowledge. Even the
News
would not dare say that a highly educated respectable member of society might be a cold-blooded killer."

Merylo was not so limited. During the past few days, he had visited both medical schools in town and talked to several doctors, looking for leads. He didn't find any. No practicing physician was willing to acknowledge the possibility that the killer might come from their ranks.

For that matter, Merylo followed up dozens of other leads-an Oriental who was reportedly fond of knives. A scrap dealer who said he saw two men carrying a coffin. Railroad police. A man living under the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge with four hundred pairs of women's shoes. A voodoo practitioner on East 40th. An escapee from the Athens State hospital. No lead was too small or too unlikely for Merylo. And no lead so far had produced anything positive.

"I gotta tell you, sir," Zalewski said hesitantly. "Some of the boys back at the station are talking."

"If you hear anyone criticizing our work, assign them to the case," Merylo grunted. "That'll teach them."

"No. Not about that. I mean about-you know." He rubbed his chin.

Merylo was letting his beard grow. It was a slow process-he had a light beard-but it was beginning to show. "Tell them I'm so busy I don't have time to shave."

"Whatever you say. But-I think the safety director might not like it. He's so goody-two-shoes clean-cut and all."

"He won't mind. It's not like he wants my picture in the paper."

"You got some kind of plan?"

"I do. But if my idea is going to work-I want as little attention as possible. From the papers or anyone else."

"The Unknowns?"

Ness grinned a little. "Yeah. What do you think?"

"Doesn't have as much zing as the Untouchables."

"Doesn't matter. No one who isn't a member is ever going to hear about it."

"And this worked?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. We've got enough cash to hire eight operatives-plus you-long-term. Freedom to do whatever you think necessary. Without being watched. Without being hampered by government restrictions."

David Cowles paused. Ness could see the wheels turning in the man's bald head. He had known Cowles, a member of the Cleveland Scientific Investigation Bureau, for some time now, and he trusted him. Cowles had been the genius behind several of the most successful cases the police department took credit for solving.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Enlist men. Send them out. Penetrate the underworld. The two victims who have been identified were both criminal types. Probably they all were. If you send your men around, quietly asking questions, not acting like cops, they're bound to find something. And if they have to use somewhat illegal means... well, they're not police officers, are they? They're just private citizens working for you."

"Sounds risky. What if someone finds out? What if the whole thing blows up? You don't need that kind of publicity."

"Me?" Ness said, pressing his hands against his chest. "I didn't have anything to do with it. I'm only the safety director."

Cowles fingered his dark, round owl-like glasses. "I'm beginning to see the way this thing works. The trail ends with me."

"You ever read Sherlock Holmes?"

Cowles opened the small box on Ness 's coffee table and took out a cigarette. "Can't say that I have. Though I hear the man was very scientific."

"He was. And he also had a group of private operatives. The Baker Street Irregulars, he called them. They were just kids. But they could fan out through all of London and learn anything Holmes needed to know without attracting attention. That's what we need here. Put your men out into the city. Find the killer."

Ness leaned in closer. "But here's the most important part, David. They report to you. You and only you. No one else. They don't even know I'm involved. Understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Think you'll have any trouble finding men?"

"Nope. Already got one in mind."

"Tell me."

"Sure you want to know?"

Ness smiled. "I'll forget the name as soon as I hear it."

"Fellow named Joe Teran."

"Mexican?"

Cowles nodded. "Marijuana dealer. My evidence put him away a few years ago. He's free now."

"An ex-con? Is that wise?"

"He's a smart man, Eliot. Tells me he's reformed. But he still has lots of contacts in the underworld. Not the kind of underworld you're used to dealing with, the highfalutin' mobsters and such. His people are the lowest level of filth the city has to offer. But I believe those are the contacts that could prove most useful in this case."

"I'll trust your judgment."

"And Joe knows lots of other useful people. Heaven knows it isn't hard to find good men who need work these days. I'll have your Unknowns out on the street before the end of the week."

"Appreciate it."

"My pleasure. I want this creep caught as much as you do. This might just work."

"Let's hope so. The people are demanding an arrest."

"And the press, huh?"

Ness looked at him sharply, then, after a moment, his face relaxed. "Yes, the newspaper boys, too."

"I know you want to keep this secret, Eliot, and I understand why. But the press are expecting you to do something. Something they can report."

"Don't worry. I've got a plan. Meanwhile, you get to work. Check in with me as often as possible. Let me know if you have any leads. Or if you need more assistance. Anything. Whatever it takes. Bring me this monster."

"You going to tell Chief Matowitz about this?"

"Not a chance. Let them follow their path, and I'll follow mine. They can be the decoy. Deflect the attention of the press. While we catch the killer. Because we've got to catch him, David. The headlines in the papers get larger every day. They've totally forgotten about everything else I've done for this city. All anyone cares about is this Torso Killer. So let's give him to them. So I can get on with my work. And my life."

"Mr. Ness! Mr. Ness!"

"Can't stop, boys. I'm working."

"Just a short interview."

"Can't do it."

"The people want to know-"

"Sorry, must keep moving."

"Not even a picture?"

Ness slowed. "Well... make it quick."

The photograph revealed Cleveland 's esteemed Safety Director, Eliot Ness, and a substantial number of police officers, standing in the very heart of Shantytown. All around him were low-level homes-if they could be called that. They would be more accurately described as shacks, cardboard boxes, piano crates. Tents, in a few instances. Squalor was everywhere. The few people visible were dirty, tired, malnourished. It was like a snapshot from hell.

Ness continued moving.

"What are you doing out here?" one of the reporters, the one from the
Courier,
asked as he chased after him, running at his heels.

"Trying to catch a killer. Most of the victims have been deposited in this area. Stands to reason that the killer lives here, or at the very least is a frequent visitor. Someone must have seen him. Might not have known they did. But they did."

"Do you think the killer is a transient?"

"I think many of the victims were. That's what makes them so hard to identify. Even that fellow who's on display at the Exposition. No one recognizes them because they weren't here long, didn't make friends. What friends or family they may have had didn't know they were here."

"What do you think of Shantytown?"

Ness hesitated. He had to be careful. "I think President Roosevelt is doing everything he can to improve the economy. But when men are out of work, crime is a natural consequence. Who knows what forces may have driven this killer to murder? All I know is this is a good place to look for information, whether this is the killer's headquarters or his favorite hunting ground. So I'm going to talk to these people. And we are going to catch this killer, my friends. Mark my words. We are going to catch him."

Once Ness shook the reporters, he was able to do some real work. Even if this trip was mostly for show, there was no reason not to try to accomplish something while he was here. He wanted to search more thoroughly. Unfortunately, most of the residents were closemouthed- understandably so, since most of them were harassed by law enforcement officers on a regular basis. Even shabby homes like these were protected by the Fourth Amendment; he couldn't go in without permission or a warrant. And he couldn't force anyone to talk.

Thank goodness the official channels were not his only angle on the case.

Late in the afternoon, while his men were combing the area, Ness spoke to a man who said he was thirty but looked fifty. He'd been riding the rails since the Crash of '29 and it showed. Said his name was Jones, but Ness suspected it wasn't. He was hesitant to talk at first- and hard to understand, because he had lost most of his teeth-but once Ness charmed him out of his suspicions and road-learned reticence, he spoke more freely.

"I came in on one of the last trains into town," he explained. "Haven't been any more. It's getting hard to get in or out."

"How's that?" Ness asked.

"Word's out on the hobo circuit. Stay away from Cleveland. Cleveland is where folks like us get their heads cut off. And no one's doing anything about it."

Ness suspected that probably would cut down on the desirability of a train stop or a free ride. It had certainly made a dent in tourism. "I know the trains are still coming into town."

"Trains, yeah. But no passengers."

"None?"

"None. Ask the railroad cops. Used to be a steady stream of bindle stiffs coming through here. No more. Nobody wants to be in Cleveland."