Here

by Sean Moynihan

  “Couldn’t be better,” she replied. “He didn’t do anything to me. He just wanted a little you-know-what, it seems, so chances are, we don’t have our killer, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll see after getting his story and checking it out. Professor, would you mind if I spoke to Miss Bly in private briefly?”

  “Certainly not, detective,” Levine answered quickly. “I’ll go get a drink of water perhaps. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Levine then exited the room and Falconer sat down with Bly at the table.

  “Look,” he said after hesitating a moment, “I appreciate what you did out there tonight, but I’ve been thinking. This work is too dangerous and you’re not a police officer. I shouldn’t have allowed you to go out with the inspector like that—”

  “But wait, I—”

  “Hold on, Miss Bly,” he quickly said. “Let me finish.” Bly sat back in her chair, obviously frustrated.

  “I know that you’ve been around the world and all that,” he continued, “and you can take care of yourself, but we’re dealing with a killer here, a vicious killer who is specifically targeting young women. I’m sorry, but I just can’t have you getting hurt or worse on behalf of this department. I know this man tonight might not have tried anything on you, but another one might, and I just don’t want you to be in that situation.”

  “You mean you don’t want me muddling up your own investigation, right?” she asked, staring at him unblinkingly. “Isn’t that what you’re really trying to say? You don’t want the former reporter getting in the way and perhaps stealing your glory?”

  “No, not at all,” Falconer said, expressing surprise at her accusation. “I don’t give a damn about glory. I just need—”

  “You just need the bothersome woman writer out of the way,” she quickly interjected. “Let’s not play games, detective. I was a reporter, you know. I was trained to get to the truth of a matter, and the truth here is, I am getting in the way of whatever it is you do. Or maybe that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re afraid that you might not be able to crack the mystery, and I will, and it’ll make you look bad in front of your superiors. Well, just know, detective, that I’m not trying to outshine you—I just want a front row seat to this little adventure so that I can write about it later, that’s all.”

  “Little adventure?” Falconer asked quizzically. “Is that what you think this is? Listen, Miss Bly, let me tell you: this is no adventure. It’s a real-life investigation of the killing of several women in this city, and maybe you don’t know what that means—a ‘killing.’ Well, I’ll tell you what it means. It means bodies, and blood, and grieving families. It’s not some little adventure to them.”

  Bly stood up out of her chair and grabbed her bag. “I don’t need to be lectured about the darker sides of life, detective,” she said indignantly. “I have been around the world you know, and without any sort of chaperone with me. It wasn’t all pretty, detective. And I’ve been stuffed into the depths of a lunatic asylum, and I’ve seen bodies, too, as you say. But if you’re going to squeeze me out of this investigation because you don’t have the spine to let a woman do what she can do, why then, I’ll just go about it myself. It is a free country, you know, even for a woman.”

  She stepped back from her chair and moved to exit the room, but Falconer stood up and reached out to grab her by the elbow. “Hold on, Miss Bly, I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Enough, detective,” she quickly said, extracting her elbow from his grasp. “You’ve been very clear with me this evening, and I thank you for allowing me to join you all thus far. Good evening to you.”

  Bly quickly exited the room and stamped down the hallway, leaving Falconer standing alone and wondering how his attempt to remove her from the possibility of being endangered had gone so completely wrong. He stepped outside into the hallway and walked down to the main lobby of the building where he saw Levine and Penwill lingering amongst a group of newspaper reporters and a few detectives. The hour was early and the headquarters that usually hummed with activity was quiet now, as the day shift had not yet appeared, and the overnight crew was of a limited number. Falconer walked up to Penwill and Levine, who were both holding cups of water in their hands and appeared to be chuckling about something or other.

  “Something wrong?” Penwill asked, looking up at Falconer.

  “Not really,” Falconer replied. “Bly just got a little huffed at me for telling her I didn’t want her getting involved in scrapes out on the streets, and she left. Did you see her go?”

  “Yes, she just asked Halloran to fetch her a cab,” Penwill said. “Seemed a bit excited and didn’t say much, really—just ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’ Did you have a bit of a row?”

  “You could say that,” Falconer said. “Too late to catch her now, though. Would you mind showing me where our suspect is?”

  “Not at all,” Penwill replied. “Shall we?”

  Penwill then led Falconer and Levine down a hallway to a holding cell where the sullen person of Alfred Weatherbee sat locked to a bench fastened to the floor of the police headquarters on this calm fall night in the slumbering metropolis of New York City.

  58

  Falconer, joined by Penwill, stood looking at Chief Inspector Byrnes and his men on a sunny afternoon down on Mulberry Street a couple of weeks after the undercover operation to ensnare the murderer began.

  “And none of these men who have matched our killer’s description can be pinned with the murders?” Byrnes asked, bending over his desk and gazing at a report containing a list and mug shots of the men who had detained in the operation.

  “None, chief,” Falconer replied. “Their stories for the days of the killings checked out, and so we had to release them.”

  “Understood,” Byrnes said, his eyes still focused on the report lying in front of him. “Any more messages sent to you, Falconer?”

  “No, sir,” Falconer said. “Nothing on that front, I’m afraid.”

  Byrnes stood up straight and crossed his arms, seemingly lost in thought, and then after a moment, he looked up at the gathered men. “Well then,” he said, “could it be that our killer has decided that he’s had enough, and he’s made his point and moved on to another city or another country perhaps?”

  The men all looked at each other without speaking, but then Penwill stepped forward from his position near the back. “If I may, chief inspector?”

  “Certainly, Inspector Penwill,” Byrnes replied.

  “Highly doubtful, sir, that this man has shoved off,” Penwill said. “In his last message that came in directed to Detective Falconer he indicated that his work wasn’t finished, but we haven’t yet seen another body, so I’m inclined to think that he’s still at it out there, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” Byrnes said, walking a few steps behind his desk. “Have you responded to that latest message?”

  “We have, chief inspector,” Penwill answered. “A little quip asking the man for a hint about his latest plans because he certainly seemed to enjoy playing little games with the detective here, but we have no answer yet.”

  “Falconer?” Byrnes asked, “anything to add?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Falconer replied. “We’ve got dozens of teams out there, night after night, but we’ve just come up short. But I’m not giving up, sir.”

  “Right,” Byrnes said, coming back to his desk. “Well then, gentlemen, I think that we have no other option but to keep up with the clandestine operation in the evenings. We may catch this man yet. And I suppose it’s time to have another message to him printed in the paper. Something not too provocative, though, because we don’t want to inflame him to the point that he does send us another body. He appears to like you, Falconer. I’m not sure why, but that’s my take on the matter, so you may be able to draw him out a bit if you foster that relationship, if you will. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer said.

  “Very well,” Byrnes said, “that’s
all for now. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The men in the room started to disperse out into the hallway as Byrnes went back to the reports lying on his desk. As they walked together down the stairs to the main lobby, Falconer turned to Penwill. “Think this is pointless?” he asked. “This little game of dress-up we’ve concocted?”

  “Not in the least, detective,” Penwill replied. “We just need one wrong turn on the part of our man, I think. One wrong move and we’ve got him. So, I say we keep up with the show, as your chief inspector suggested.”

  “Yes,” Falconer said. “I suppose you’re right, but…”

  Penwill stopped Falconer as they neared the bottom of the staircase. “But what?”

  “Nothing,” Falconer replied. “Just thinking too much, probably. Let’s head out.”

  The two men then moved silently between the scurrying people filling the busy first floor of the headquarters building and walked outside into the busier streets of lower Manhattan.

  59

  Falconer arrived at the Oak Street station a week after his briefing with the chief and was immediately greeted by a patrol officer holding an envelope in his hand. “Detective Falconer, I’ve got another letter for you. Detective Sergeant Malloy asked that you bring it upstairs as soon as you arrived.”

  Falconer took the envelope in his hand and stared at the writing on its exterior. He almost felt his heart sag within his chest. Damn it, he thought. Still here. Now what? He thought back to the simple message that they had just recently placed in the Tribune, directed at their quarry: “Are you still there?”

  Thanking the officer, he bounded up the stairs to Captain O’Connor’s office. The captain was not in, but Detective Sergeant Malloy was, and the burly policeman greeted Falconer enthusiastically before asking him to open the letter. The two men stepped into a side office and sat down as Falconer gently opened the envelope and read the contents contained inside:

  Dear Falconer:

  I am still here, and I know this game that you refer to, Blind Man’s Wand. But I can assure you that I play no games here, and I certainly won’t accept your invitation to play your little game with the officers dressed up as ladies. That was a good try, Falconer, but you’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.

  So to your pleasures: I am for other than for dancing measures.

  J.

  “What does it say?” Malloy asked him after a few moments.

  “The son of a bitch,” Falconer replied cryptically, handing the note to Malloy. “Here, read it.”

  Malloy took the letter, extracted some reading spectacles from his breast pocket, and then scanned the lines that had been typed out on the paper.

  “Hm,” he snorted, looking back at Falconer. “Queer writing. But it seems the bastard’s on to us.”

  “Yes, he is,” Falconer said, taking the letter back. “He’s very good.”

  “I suppose so, Falconer,” Malloy answered. “Well, I’m sorry about this after putting all those officers out there.”

  “It’s all right,” Falconer said. “It was a long shot anyway.”

  “So, what’s the bit at the end mean?” Malloy asked. “Some sort of poetry?”

  “I’m not sure,” Falconer replied, standing up and placing the letter into his jacket pocket. “But we’ll look into it. I’m going to bring this over to headquarters, if you don’t mind alerting the captain.”

  “Sure, sure,” Malloy said. “Well, keep at it, Falconer. We need to catch this SOB.”

  “Right, I’ll see you.”

  A short time later, Falconer was standing inside Chief Inspector Byrnes’ office with the chief and several of his men. Penwill, on one of his investigatory jaunts around a part of the city, was absent, but Falconer had encountered Jimmy Halloran as he entered the building, and so he asked the young officer to join him in the meeting. “Yes, sir!” Halloran had replied with surprise. “Certainly, detective.”

  Now, standing around Byrnes desk as a bright sheen of sunlight shone through the closed windows, the men were discussing the suspect’s latest missive.

  “Well,” Byrnes announced as he pondered the contents of the letter in his hand, “it seems that this man is more perceptive than we thought. I don’t see the point of continuing with the efforts to catch him with officers dressed as the fallen ladies. Do you, Falconer?”

  “No, chief inspector,” Falconer answered. “I think we’ve reached the end with that, unfortunately. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right, Falconer,” Byrnes said. “It was worth a try. The question now is, what do we do next to get this man? Any thoughts?”

  The men in the room looked at each other, but none spoke. And then, from behind Falconer, young Jimmy Halloran raised his hand. “Pardon me, chief inspector.”

  Byrnes glanced at the young officer quizzically. “Yes, who are you?”

  “This is Officer Halloran, sir,” Falconer said, motioning for Halloran to step closer. “He’s been assisting me out on the streets during the operation.”

  “I see,” Byrnes said. “What is it, Halloran?”

  “Yes, sir,” Halloran said as he moved a few steps closer to the others. “You said you have all of the letters there on your desk? May I please have a look at the envelopes?”

  “Certainly,” Byrnes replied. “What are you looking for?”

  Halloran approached the desk and grabbed the letters that Falconer had received at the Oak Street station. Scanning the envelopes closely, he then looked up at the chief inspector. “Yes, it’s just as I thought, sir: they all have the same postmark on them. Here, have a look.”

  He held the envelopes in his hand closer to Byrnes’ face, and the chief inspector peered intently at the markings on them. “What am I looking for, Halloran?” he asked.

  “The postmarks, sir,” Halloran said, pointing. “The little stamped circle on each envelope right there.”

  “Ah, yes, I can see that,” Byrnes replied. “What of them?”

  “Well, sir,” Halloran said, “as you can see, they all say, ‘New York,’ but they also show the further designation, ‘STA. 23.’ That stands for Substation 23, which is where the letters were first received by the post office. So, all three letters were sent from the same substation, sir.”

  “I see,” Byrnes said, now looking up at Halloran. “So, what is it that you’re trying to say, Halloran?”

  “I think what he’s saying, sir,” Falconer interrupted, “is that whoever’s been sending these to me is dropping them at one place— the Substation 23 post office.”

  “Yes,” Byrnes said. “And where does that little observation get us?”

  “If I’m understanding Halloran right,” Falconer continued, “we could potentially lie in wait at this post office and catch the person dropping the letters, sir. It could take a while, but we might be able to do it, correct, Halloran?”

  “Yes, sir,” Halloran replied. “You see, chief inspector, my pop has worked for the post office for many years now, and he’s shown me lots of postmarks like these ones here. It’s basically a little bit of a clue as to where the person is sending a letter from.”

  “And any idea where this particular Station 23 is in the city?” Byrnes asked.

  “If I may, sir,” Detective Sergeant McLaughlin interrupted. “It’s the substation right down on the Bend—just a little hole-in-the-wall type place, an Italian joint. I’d say it’s somewhere around fifty-one or fifty-two Mulberry—”

  “Fifty-five and a half, to be exact,” Falconer said. “I’ve dropped mail off there myself. It shares a storefront with a little Italian bank and there’s usually a vegetable cart parked right out front.”

  “Right,” McLaughlin said. “That’s the one.”

  “But hundreds of people must drop letters in slots at this substation every day,” Byrnes observed. “How do you figure that we can find that one letter addressed to you, Falconer, right at the moment when the suspect drops it in?”

  “The slots are l
ocated inside the station right next to the clerks’ counter,” Falconer answered. “So, you have to walk inside to drop your mail off. If someone were to stand just behind the slots, he could get a look at each letter that’s dropped in, sir. Then, it’s just a matter of identifying the letter right when it’s dropped and arresting the person who placed it in there. It may be a difficult proposition, but probably worth a try.”

  “And we simply instruct these postal workers to look over every letter thrown into those slots?” Byrnes asked. “Can we trust their diligence, gentlemen?”

  “We can actually place officers under cover behind the counter,” Falconer said. “They can pose as clerks, and act like they’re simply working back there near the mail slots. It could work, sir.”

  Byrnes looked down at the letters in his hand and turned to face the window overlooking Mulberry Street below. Then, after a moment gazing down at the busy street, he turned back to face the men standing before him. “Substation 23, hm?” he said, looking at Falconer and Halloran. “And to think that our murderer just might get caught because he made the simple mistake of dropping his letters to Falconer at the same mail station every time. Halloran, if it works, you’ve earned your first promotion. Let’s do it.”

  “I’ll get men inside that post office immediately,” Falconer said.

  “But what of this last bit?” Byrnes asked. “The little bit of rhyme at the end of this letter—anyone have any idea what that means?”

  “We’re not sure, chief,” Falconer replied. “We’re still working on that.”

  “Pardon me, chief,” Detective McCloskey interrupted, “but doesn’t Ehrlicher downstairs fancy a bit of poetry and such? Maybe he could identify it if it is, in fact, some sort of published poetry?”

  “I wasn’t aware of that about him,” Byrnes said, “but if that’s what you’ve heard, why don’t you go fetch him and we’ll ask?”

  McCloskey then stepped outside of the office and, after several moments, returned with a thin, bespectacled officer whom Falconer had never seen before.