The Unclaimed Victim

by D. M. Pulley

  The doctor’s office was in an old brick colonial a block off Central Avenue where gunshots weren’t unusual and cops were slow to respond. No doubt someone had heard the shot, but odds were good it would go unreported. She’d slipped the receptionist ten dollars to take a long lunch and lock the door. From the looks of her, the poor girl would be happy to find the good doctor dead when she got back. He gaped at the locked door in dazed desperation.

  “Nobody’s coming, Doc. It’s just you and me.”

  His gaze didn’t waver, if he’d heard her at all. His ears were probably still ringing from the blast. Years on the street told her the shock wouldn’t last. Nobody waited around after jumping a guy to see what might happen, they just snatched the fool’s wallet and ran. And he outweighed her by fifty pounds. Drop him fast. She shoved his stunned carcass away from the wall and kicked him hard in the groin, as she’d done to many men in dark alleys. “You’re keepin’ your pants on today, Doc.”

  He doubled over onto the stool, toppling it to the ground. Ethel kept the barrel trained on him lying there wheezing, and started pulling open drawers, tossing gloves and metal instruments to the ground until she found what she was looking for. She slapped the wire and fabric ether mask onto the metal counter and grabbed a brown medicine jar out of the cabinet above. She popped the glass stopper and gave it a sniff. She knew the burning sweet smell all too well from the junkie doctors she’d met in the Run. It had come in handy more than once. Before the doctor’s brain could track her, she’d doused the mask and pressed it to his crumpled face.

  “Breathe nice and deep, Doc,” she said, holding the barrel of the gun to his temple with her other hand, her knee on the side of his neck.

  He struggled against the weight of her, gulping big breaths until the spark of panic in his eyes went dim. The ether hit and his muscles went limp. She eased her weight off him and pulled the mask once a heavy fog settled over his face.

  She stood up, flushed with adrenaline. The doctor lay there in a stupor. The urge to strip him naked and gut him like a fish nearly overpowered her. She reared back and kicked him hard in the gut instead, again and again, growling every curse under the sun. His pig face by the side of the bed telling her the baby had gone to a better place replayed again and again. For all she knew, he’d killed it.

  He let out a low groan with each blow but barely moved. It finally occurred to her that if she kept going, she’d kill him before she got what she wanted.

  She hauled his dead weight up to sitting and slapped him in the face. “Hey, Doc! Wake up! We need to talk.”

  His voice came slipping out of his lips with a string of drool. “You don’t . . . have the slightest idea . . . who you’re dealing with.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Tell me about the Legion. Who are they?”

  He breathed out a woozy laugh. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Who killed Rose Wallace?” she yelled in his ear.

  “Who?” His eyes rolled wildly, pupils swollen.

  She shoved her face into his warped field of vision, making him recoil. “Did you kill the black girl Rose Wallace?”

  He shook his head. “I told them she was too dirty. That it wouldn’t work, but her blood was so red . . . as red as the others.”

  Ethel grabbed him by the throat. “Who did you tell it wouldn’t work? Who wanted her blood?”

  His mouth hung slack, garbling his words. “The witch . . . Adela.”

  She loosened her grip. “Adela Rae Wulf?”

  “She was the . . . demanded the bleeding ceremonies . . . it was all of her witchcraft nonsense . . . so could see through the underworld to the future, but I knew . . .” His head fell back against the wall.

  Ethel grabbed him by the hair. “Who else was there?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She banged the back of his head against the cabinets. “Who else?”

  Dietrich blinked his eyes back open and startled at the sight of her. “What are you doing here? They’ll kill you. You’re . . . dead.”

  “Who? Who’s going to kill me?” When he didn’t answer, she tried a different tack. “Your friend Adela already told them everything.”

  “What?” The fear in his eyes told her she’d hit a nerve. He was too far gone to reason it out, she realized. He was in a blackout.

  “Adela told everyone you’re the Mad Butcher—the cops, the press.” She watched the words sink in. Rich folks like Dietrich never faced justice in the real world, not unless they turned on each other. “They’re comin’ for you, Doc. They’re going to give you the chair for all those people you did.”

  “No. It wasn’t . . . ,” he sputtered, his dilated eyes darting to the walls like a caged animal’s. “It was the Legion. The Silver Shirts . . . they told me . . . it’s the war.”

  The phone out in the reception area started to ring. The sound of it seemed to wake something up in the doctor, so she gave him another dose of ether.

  “They’re gonna put you on trial. How do you think the boss . . . what’s his name?”

  “Pelley,” he breathed, drooling onto his shirt.

  “Right. What do you think Pelley will do when he finds out you’ve been caught? Do you think he’s gonna want you blabbing everything you know to the coppers?”

  The color drained from his face. He gaped at her, dumbstruck. “No. It wasn’t supposed to . . . like this . . . Pelley’s armies . . . he promised me . . . promised a gov’n—ship . . . And now . . .”

  “Now they’re going to kill you.” The helpless terror on his face sent a cold satisfaction through her. The bastard that had strung her up deserved to die pissing himself. “They’re going to hang you from a meat hook and bleed you dry . . .”

  “No . . . ,” he wailed and heaved onto the floor. His body trembled in a cold sweat. “I’m not a dog! I’m a doctor for Christ’s sake! A respected member of the com—ity. A pillar . . .”

  “No. You’re a killer . . . a sex maniac even. You stripped young hustlers like Eddie naked before cuttin’ him up.” Ethel stood up from the mess and considered whether she had the stomach to cut up the doctor like he deserved. Or she could shoot him. Outside, the street noises went about their business without a siren in earshot. Newspaper headlines reading GOOD DOCTOR GUNNED DOWN flashed through her mind. No, she decided angrily. He must die in shame, an utter disgrace. A bum. A junkie. “You know what they said down in the Run about the Butcher when they found those first two bodies? They said it must be a queer love triangle. You a swish, Doc?”

  The doctor recoiled from the words in his ether fog and pulled at his hair. “No, no, no . . . that wasn’t me . . . Those bastards . . . Woznick and Kessler wanted to make an example . . . The pimp fucked Woznick’s wife.”

  Ethel made a mental note of the names and scanned the medicine cabinet. She grabbed a morphine vial, recognizing the label from her years hustling junkies. She found a hypodermic needle and filled it to the top. She pulled rubbing tubing from another drawer and hunkered down next to him on the ground. “How many cops are in the Legion?”

  The doctor shook his head. “In Cleveland? Eleven? Twelve?”

  “You’re going to fry, Doc. All those cops against you? Judges too?”

  The doctor nodded and then retched again onto the floor. “God . . . I can’t . . . it’s not me.”

  “I need their names.”

  “You stupid bitch,” he mumbled, his head falling to his chest. “They’re going to find you . . . The Legion is everywhere. New York, Detroit, Chicago, Los Angeles. They’ve got armies . . . Pelley will be king and you . . .” He let out an inebriated laugh.

  Ethel slapped him hard and shoved the ether mask back over his face. “I need their names!”

  A stream of garbled names poured out of the doctor’s mouth as his eyes went out. The list went on and on. They’ve got armies. He slumped against the floor, unconscious. She had half a mind to let the Legion find him and do their worst, but then they’d know what he’d told her.


  She rolled up the doctor’s sleeve with the rubber tubing in her teeth and the gun next to her knee. Needle marks dotted his arm. Good. She tightened the tourniquet around his bicep and slapped his veins. “Don’t worry, Doc. Lotsa folks kill themselves in times like these. You’re goin’ straight to hell either way.”

  He mumbled something into the floor. It sounded like “You’re dead.”

  She checked the dosage again just to be sure. It was enough junk to kill two men. She sank the needle into a fat vein and pushed it home. She grabbed the handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned her fingerprints from the syringe. Lifting his limp hand from the floor, she pressed it against the vial and plunger.

  He shook a little as the enormous dose of morphine hit his bloodstream. A puddle of urine spread across the floor. She gazed into his eyes as they drifted back into his head. He deserved so much worse. “They can’t kill me!” she spat at his still body. “I died years ago.”

  Ethel stood up and wiped all traces of herself from the office as she left the room. It wasn’t perfect. The bullet hole in the wall. The powder burn. The bruises on his ribs. The receptionist. But something told her that the doctor’s police friends would keep it quiet and avoid a big investigation. She decided it didn’t really matter.

  Across the street, Johnnie’s legs swung back and forth from a park bench. “Is everything okay?” she asked as Ethel walked up.

  “Yep. Everything’s just fine, sugar.”

  “What we doin’ now?”

  “We’re gonna go visit a lady that calls herself a witch.” Ethel picked up the girl’s hand and started walking, watching the street. “And then maybe we’ll get some ice cream. You like ice cream?”

  TORSO KILLER VICTIM COMES FORWARD

  Religious Cult May Be Responsible for Murders

  The Torso Murder investigation reopened today based on the sworn statement of an 84-year-old woman who claims to have escaped Cleveland’s most notorious serial killer in 1938. Sources inside the FBI suggest a religious cult may be responsible for the brutal slaying of at least 11 victims between 1934 and 1938, and federal agents are investigating whether the recent shooting death of Alfred Wiley in Tremont is linked to similar cult activity. Material witnesses to Wednesday’s shooting claim that a pseudo-religious white supremacist group was involved. The alleged crime ring has been implicated in a series of unsolved murders throughout Ohio, Illinois and Pennsylvania. Witnesses are reportedly being held in an undisclosed location and were not available for comment. Sources have confirmed that one of the initial suspects, Peter Davis, has been released from custody . . .

  —Cleveland Daily News, May 8, 1999, p. 1

  EPILOGUE

  January 21, 2000

  It wasn’t her.

  Passing by the shop window, she caught her own reflection in the glass. The sight stopped her cold. The girl was a stranger. Her cropped hair dyed black. Her small frame swallowed by an oversized hoodie. Her amber eyes nothing but a shadow under her pierced brow. A street artist. A punk. A pickpocket. A thief.

  A killer.

  She studied the specter of herself and lifted the camera hanging from her neck. The teeming streets of Mexico City bounced their vivid colors off the glass. In the frame, a tall, dark figure peeled away from the crowd, walking toward the girl reflected in the window. She watched him through the lens, her body braced with a fear she’d come to know like her own skin. They found me.

  She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, refusing to turn around. Ben’s still in custody. Troy hung himself in his cell. Still . . . don’t look behind you.

  When she peered through the lens again, the man stood four steps away from the girl with the camera. His face distorted by light and shadow, he raised his hand—Click.

  Click. Click.

  It was a perfect shot for her growing collection. Two ghosts caught in the blur of the street. A victim. A killer.

  “Hey,” Jimmy asked from over her shoulder. He held out a foil-wrapped taco he’d bought for her. “You okay?”

  She turned and flashed him a wary smile. “Yeah. Never better.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  The Unclaimed Victim is a work of historical fiction, and as such it contains several true events, places, and people that form the backdrop for a fictional story. It should be noted that the characters and the plot itself are all figments of the author’s imagination. The Harmony Mission never existed; however, the story was inspired by a real building.

  The following is an index of true events, places, and people that give historical context to the novel. Any characterization or dialogue involving any real persons are fabrications invented by the author to enhance the story.

  Torso Killer—Police detectives and the Cuyahoga County coroner believed the severed remains of thirteen bodies found in and around Cleveland from 1934 to 1938 to all be victims of a serial killer. Dubbed by the newspapers as the “Torso Killer” and the “Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run,” the perpetrator was never officially identified, although many professional and amateur detectives have well-founded theories. There is no substantial evidence to support the theory of the killer’s identity presented in this novel. Instead, this work of fiction is a thought experiment that explores the inconsistencies between the homicides and the possibility that more than one killer may have succeeded in getting away with murder.

  Silver Shirt Legion—A secretive society known to be Nazi sympathizers and harsh critics of Communism was active in Cleveland from 1934 to 1939. The Silver Shirt Legion’s leader, William Dudley Pelley, working out of Ashville, North Carolina, was tried for attempting to overthrow the government in 1940. He was arrested again for sedition in 1942 and sentenced to fifteen years. There is no direct evidence to suggest that Pelley or the Silver Shirts were involved in the Torso Murders; however, detectives did suspect at various points in their investigation that a cult may have been involved.

  A reported leader of the Cleveland Silver Shirt Legion, Alice Tucker West, ran a finishing school and was rumored to dabble in witchcraft and the occult. Ms. West never became a suspect in the Torso Murders as far as the author is aware. However, detectives suspected that the occult may have been involved in the brutal beheadings and dismemberments of the victims.

  Dr. Chester Doron was another reported leader of the Cleveland Legion. Dr. Doron never became a suspect in the Torso Murders as far as the author is aware. However, many doctors became prime suspects in the case over the years due to their knowledge of anatomy and the surgical techniques used to dismember the victims.

  Tremont Place Lofts—The 178,000-square-foot building complex that currently houses the Tremont Place Lofts, located on West 7th Street in Tremont, inspired the labyrinthine Harmony Mission Press Building at the center of the novel. The author has been endlessly inspired and obsessed with its long and storied history that dates back to 1851.

  Edward Andrassy—Identified in the canon of the Torso Killer as Victim No. 1, Edward Andrassy was a known criminal and a suspected pimp.

  Detective Peter Merylo—Peter Merylo acted as the lead detective investigating the Torso Murders for many years and was known to disguise himself as a hobo and ride the rails in search of the killer. He continued to follow the cold case well into his retirement.

  Eliot Ness—The famous Prohibition agent that took down Al Capone with his crew of “Untouchables” in Chicago served as safety director of Cleveland from 1935 to 1942. During his tenure, he publicly vowed to catch the Torso Killer, a promise he was never able to fulfill despite his best efforts and questionable methods. He allegedly kidnapped and illegally detained a suspect for questioning in May of 1938 but was unable to make a case. Daunted, Ness ordered the hobo jungles in Kingsbury Run and the Flats burned to the ground on August 18, 1938.

  Flo Polillo—A known prostitute and alcoholic, Flo Polillo (Victim No. 3) was one of the few victims of the Torso Killer to ever be identified.

  Dr. Francis Sweeney—Perhaps the best known of all the Torso
Killer suspects, Dr. Francis Sweeney was an alcoholic who spent years in and out of psychiatric hospitals. It is widely assumed that Dr. Sweeney was the secret suspect that Eliot Ness allegedly kidnapped and illegally detained for questioning in May of 1938.

  Rose Wallace—Torso Killer Victim No. 8 was tentatively identified through dental records as Rose Wallace. Rose was a known prostitute and had at least one child, a son that identified her remains. She was also the only African American victim of the killer.

  Newspaper clippings—All newspaper article excerpts are authentic and true as cited in the novel except for the final excerpt from the Cleveland Daily News, which is fictional.

  Many fine scholars, journalists, and detectives have studied the Torso Murders over the years, and I relied heavily on their research and hard work. Most notably, the following books gave me valuable insight into the history of the Torso Killer:

  Badal, James Jessen. In the Wake of the Butcher: Cleveland’s Torso Murders, Authoritative Edition, Revised and Expanded. Kent: Kent State University Press, 2014.

  Bellamy, John Stark II. The Maniac in the Bushes and More Tales of Cleveland Woe. Cleveland: Gray and Company, 1997.

  Bernhardt, William. Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness, A Novel. New York: Ballantine Books, 2009.

  Martin, John Bartlow. Butcher’s Dozen and Other Murders. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1950.

  Nickel, Steven. Torso: The Story of Eliot Ness and the Search for a Psychopathic Killer. Winston-Salem: John F. Blair, 1989.

  Ressler, Robert K., and Tom Shachtman. Whoever Fights Monsters: My Twenty Years Tracking Serial Killers for the FBI. New York: St. Martin’s, 1992.

  My research into the Cleveland Bund and the Silver Shirt Legion relied heavily on newspaper articles published in the Cleveland Press and the Cleveland Plain Dealer around the time the Torso Murders occurred (cited within the novel). In addition, the following book by a scholar at Cleveland State University provided valuable insight: