by H. B. Berlow
After finding a diner for a hearty breakfast, I made my way back to the police building and went over all the files with Lindsay and Gallison. I decided to review them without further input in order to come up with a conclusion all my own and see how it matched theirs. The disappointing thing was everything I considered was parallel with their analysis. We contemplated a person with some medical knowledge or, in fact, an actual butcher. The process of dismemberment required time and an ideal location, perhaps a house with a basement or an abandoned building such as were to be found in the Kingsbury Run area. We removed the notion of ‘madness’ assuming the perpetrator to be mentally unstable or insane. However, a full-blown lunatic would not have the capability to maintain the sense of control necessary to complete such a gory business. After several hours of review and conversation, we met at the same point and it led to a brick wall.
They proceeded to inquire about the case in Wichita. It was a slower process considering I had no files or pictures to show them and could only go by the notes I had taken and later had transcribed. Lindsay described what he felt was either an element of justice or moral rectitude based on the victims. When I pointed out Tangerine Smith seemed to be a giving and loving person and Jessica Rabal had no connection to the prostitutes, Lindsay indicated perspective was the key to understanding his point.
“It’s never how you perceive the victims. It is how the perpetrator sees them. While it is difficult to imagine it, consider the fact this restaurant was outside of city limits and, as such, not a pillar of the community. If the killer had any notion she was providing drugs to this Meeks girl, it could be assumed he thought of Miss Smith as a drug dealing reprobate. It would certainly fit in with his sense of justice.”
“And the laundress?”
“Well, it does present a different set of circumstances. As she was the first victim, there might have been something different to incite this killer. Her looks or perhaps she may have rejected him and then he sought what he considered easier targets. At the very least, he got his first taste of killing with her.”
“Have you two ever come across any killer like that?”
“Right before the Crash of ’29,” Gallison chimed in, “there was a defrocked priest who killed two men who had frequented prostitutes. One guy was a banker and the other was a store owner. He said he was trying to save them from the same fate as him. The priest apparently got caught with a young female parishioner of, shall we say, dubious virtue and was kicked out of the church.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Never went to trial. He died insane from syphilis.”
It was close to four o’clock when Eliot joined us to check up on our progress.
“Nothing new, chief, but not for trying,” Gallison commented, as gracious as Santa. “The guy’s got a brain in him. Could use another quality detective in our department.”
I was sincerely flattered. I was just a policeman walking a beat in Ark City trying to keep a small Kansas town safe for the good people there. I no longer had any desire to be a big shot in a big city. It was a notion left me years ago as a teenager and then again somewhat more recently. But, at the very least, to be respected for my abilities gave me a renewed sense of purpose. At the moment, there was no doubt I was Baron Witherspoon and not Eric Kimble. At the moment.
“What about a libation before bed time, kids?” Eliot seemed like a college fraternity brother rather than a decorated police officer. His outgoing nature made it easier for me to relax and not be so worried. Lindsay and Gallison had just given me some worthwhile info and speculated on notions I couldn’t have come up with. They were just like Sells and Rackler, homicide detectives in a big city, but with less pressure and little to gain they were able to think more creatively. I didn’t really need to extend my stay much further except for the hospitality.
Flannery’s Pub brought back memories of Chicago and Deanie and Bugs and Hymie and, yes, Jake Hickey. Before it soured for me, the North Side Gang tried to be like family. Hearing Dion O’Banion in my mind, the big Irish lug, sing Cohan’s “Over There” and smiling like a galoot seemed like Ted Healey and his Stooges but in the end it’s what saved my life.
Other than the medicinal hooch I was able to pick up every now and then, I wasn’t much of a drinker. I was scared it might loosen my tongue and allow all kinds of things to slip out. Eliot Ness, on the other hand, enjoyed his whiskey shots with a beer chaser, and regaled us with stories of Prohibition-era Chicago, little realizing I personally knew many of the men he encountered. Lindsay and Gallison smiled at the hundredth retelling of the stories.
“Boss, don’t you think your wife will wonder where you are?” a concerned Gallison expounded.
“No. She knows.” The smile remained but it was a mask covering a deep disappointment. He snapped out of it, like a patient coming out of a coma. “The perpetrator in Wichita. He’s following the case.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“If it is a person with a moral sense, an avenging angel so to speak, he doesn’t want to be in the shadows. He wants to be recognized for his work. At the appropriate time, he’ll reveal himself.”
“Just give himself up?”
“No, no. He’s going to say something or do something which might sound simple minded. But it’s his way of letting you know he is doing a job, completing a task.”
“Are you saying I already know the guy or have met him?”
Ness was staring blankly ahead. I couldn’t tell if he was a mystic in a trance or just another drunk expounding on his theories.
“What Eliot is indicating,” Lindsay picked up, “is most of these mission oriented perpetrators let their motivation be known. They can’t hide it because they want you to know they have a goal in mind. It’s like our torso killer, only…”
“You don’t know what the goal is.” I hated having to finish his thought. We realized we were both dealing with cases unlike anything most police anywhere had ever encountered.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
My head seemed to contain a small jazz combo with the bass and drums playing most of the song. My face drooped, like it was melting away from my skull. I had stayed out too late and underestimated Eliot’s ability to put away booze, never considering he had a hollow leg. Lindsay had been the first to go. Even big Detective Gallison had had enough by the fifth round. Seeing as how I relied on Eliot for transportation, I was left with him until the Mick bartender at Flannery’s announced last call.
Surprisingly, Eliot was chipper and not looking the worse for wear when I got to his office the next morning. I figured it was dangerous to not be able to feel anything by drinking so much. At least I realized not to do it again.
“So, you heading home to Kansas?”
“Nothing more I can learn here, although you have opened my eyes to quite a bit.”
“Well, Gallison expressed my sentiments as well. If you ever get a hankering for the city life, we’ll have a place for you.”
As we shook hands, Lindsay burst in without so much as a notification from Miss Hammersmith. He was as white as a sheet, a fine bead of sweat on his forehead.
“He struck again,” Lindsay said bluntly.
“What?” Eliot’s hand fell from mine, balling up in a fist, his knuckles practically white.
“Torso of a woman dumped at 9th and Lakeside.”
“Lakeside and ninth?” Eliot’s voice squeaked like a little girl. “Why, that’s just…”
He turned sharply, looking out the window behind him, his hands in the same position on the window ledge. The body had been dumped within view of Eliot’s office. The killer was playing a game.
Eliot turned around, straightened his vest and jacket, ran a hand over his hair to smooth down the one strand that had come loose. His voice, when he spoke, was tight but clear with a slight crack in it.
“Detective Lindsay, would you be so kind as to give Officer Witherspoon a ride to the train station?” He looked at me an
d finished the handshake we started. “Baron, it was a pleasure to have met you. We would relish the opportunity to work with you professionally if it were to happen.”
“The honor is all mine.”
I didn’t look back when I left, didn’t even wink at Miss Hammersmith. Lindsay’s silence on the brief ride to the train station spoke more than any commentary could have. A mumbled appreciation for meeting me was more than likely due to his thoughts being elsewhere, such as a seemingly impossible case to solve and a boss who was out of sorts yet maintaining every bit of composure. For all of two days I met and worked with Eliot Ness, I could feel the knots in his stomach. I felt them myself with Natalie Dixon.
The journey back took as many stops and the same amount of time yet felt so much longer. I slept very little, recalling each and every moment of my time in Cleveland, not just the departure, and thinking about what I learned from men who took their work seriously and too often personally. Each significant case I was involved with over the last four years was something eating at me from the inside out. This wasn’t Rogelio Lopez getting drunk on a Friday night. This wasn’t the kids from the high school knocking over people’s mail boxes. This wasn’t even the theft of eighty-two year old Edmond Hansel’s bicycle. These were all cases in which I was directly involved. Wichita decided to go in another direction for their investigation. They could have learned a lot from these men.
I reported directly to Chief Richardson when I got back in about four in the afternoon. I was prepared right then and there to file a report or as he had indicated “telling him all about my vacation.” He figured the traveling was pretty rough and indicated I still had another week’s worth of time off. I wasn’t sure I needed anything more than a long night’s rest in my own bed.
Miss Banister was surprised I wasn’t hungry, especially with the roast she had made and the mashed potatoes and brown gravy. Her recent new boarder, Josiah Wainwright, indicated he would have my plate so it wouldn’t go to waste. He was a skinny man who worked as a laborer and could certainly use the extra meal.
I sat at the desk in my room, and made a series of notes, as much for me as for some unnecessary report. It was important to put everything in perspective and not just compare diverse cases. When it dawned on me the Wichita Police Department might never invite me back, I wondered what all this was for. I had gotten a notion in my head that I and I alone could solve this case. What I realized was it took a bunch of guys working together. And some luck.
Dave Morton dropped by toward the end of my second week, carrying with him the latest Traveler.
“Seems you missed all the excitement,” he said smiling.
The article indicated the Cleveland Police Department, led by Public Safety Director Eliot Ness, conducted a raid in the shanty towns in and around Kingsbury Run based on a tip a possible suspect of a series of grisly murders might be there. After a thorough search, the entire area was burned down. The cause of the fires was uncertain, and there was no indication any suspect had been brought in for questioning. Eliot probably thought there could be no Mad Butcher if Kingsbury Run didn’t exist. It would take some time to see if the theory worked.
After my vacation, I had an informal debriefing with Chief Richardson. He looked upon my trip like I had gone away to college and learned a few things which might be helpful for our own department over the course of time. As for Wichita’s investigation, he made it very clear I was no longer involved with them if you could even say I was to begin with. The only thing I felt for certain was I had become Baron Witherspoon, beat cop in Arkansas City, Kansas; the kid who went from farm boy to war veteran to the career he had been meant to have all along. Eric Kimble wouldn’t have been here; neither would the real Baron Witherspoon. I had become someone I could understand and accept without fighting off the ghosts from the past.
The summer was starting to fade and the cool breezes of fall were making their way across the plains. It was approaching Labor Day when I got a phone call from Wichita.
Chapter Thirty
Chief Richardson kept the caller waiting an inordinately long period of time, showing the same degree of respect for them as they did for me. When I got to his office, I noticed more of a smirk on his face than I had ever seen before.
“Remember, Baron, you don’t owe them anything.”
One thing I had learned from my trip to Cleveland was how to be and remain a professional at all times. I was forty, a veteran of the war, and a respectable police officer. If those factors alone weren’t enough, I don’t know what might have been.
The caller was Captain Randolph Merton. He sounded like an overly educated bureaucrat who hadn’t spent a day walking a beat. He was trying to sound gracious, his words sweeter than maple syrup, but he came off as a highfalutin society mogul with an attitude about all the “little people,” one of which included me. He was practically choking on his words as they came out of his mouth.
“I am calling at the behest of Chief Bowery.”
“I thought Wilson was your police chief.” Having a little fun making Merton squirm did not, in my mind, undermine my sense of professionalism.
“L.E. Bowery will be taking over the first of next year and was reevaluating some of our open cases.”
“Like your ripper?”
“Yes. Exactly. The reports you filed indicated a direction our detectives had not previously considered.”
“I got the impression they didn’t want to consider it.” It was necessary to make it perfectly clear to this bigwig I knew what I was doing and didn’t feel his own detectives had a clue. “Detectives Sells and Rackler seem to have had their own notions.”
“All of which have run their course after thorough review.”
It was right there I knew I was at a fork in the road. I could have told this bloated oaf to go straight to blazes and figure out their own cases. However, it was the professional in me pulling harder. I didn’t actually want to say no. I wanted to be asked back. I wanted to show them I knew how to solve a complex crime. I wanted to make amends for Natalie. Which is why I let him go on.
“With your Chief’s permission, of course, we would greatly appreciate you reviewing the case files again.” There was a pause, a kind of fuzzy hum in the silence. “Oh, and something else.”
“Yes?”
“There’s been another killing.”
The bottom line is the city of Wichita had a killer running loose with his own sense of purpose, perhaps a list, certainly an agenda, and they had nothing in terms of a suspect. I had just seen the same sort of thing in Cleveland. You would like to think you can solve all these cases but you know you can’t. Maybe in a smaller town, if it even happened there. But in the big cities with all the people living there and plenty of places to hide out and disappear within, there was no guarantee. Detective Sells would eventually retire. Detective Rackler would move up in the department. Chief Wilson would spend his elder days fishing. And the Wichita Ripper would be caught or never be found. This is the way Life worked, and we didn’t have much say in the matter.
Officer Ronald Roché greeted me upon my arrival. Like a younger brother or a puppy dog, his eagerness caught me off guard. He had been personable and respectful when I first met him but keeping a distance. Now, he was as happy to see me as a young kid with a sweet tooth was to see the Easter bunny.
“I didn’t expect to be back here,” I commented, sounding as though I had just awakened.
“Well, after I saw the news article, I knew you would be.”
Officer Roché pulled a folded copy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer from under his arm, opened it up and smoothed it out to the article on page three. It was about a week after the burning of Kingsbury Run. Eliot Ness had caught some serious flak for it, tried to justify it as an attempt at apprehending a ‘major suspect’ but wound up incurring the wrath of city officials. In his desperate plea to indicate how much effort had gone into the case, he referenced the four local detectives plus having called in an �
�experienced consultant, Officer Baron Witherspoon from the Arkansas City (Kansas) police department.’ I knew why Ness used my name and it didn’t bother me much. I wasn’t anything special and I knew it. But the politicos in Cleveland didn’t know it either. Now the big boys in Wichita thought I was the cat’s meow. I smiled just a bit and pulled back my shoulders, feeling like the cock of the walk.
“You are somethin’ after all, aren’t you?” But this was not like I was the college football star who had come back to give the guys the rah-rah-pep talk. This was Death, cold and vicious death, not some misguided battle among generals, but a man, a creature of some sort, on a mission no one could possibly understand.
“Before we go in,” I said, stopping in the middle of the hallway, “what do you know about the most recent victim?”
“Young girl from Oklahoma named Carole Cox. She’d been involved with Sister Celeste David.”
“Who’s she?”
“Sister Celeste? She has one of the biggest revivals in this area. Well, she’s mostly from Texas and Oklahoma. Just making her way up to Kansas.”
“And this Cox girl?”
“Apparently she’d been traveling with Sister Celeste, trying desperately to find the Lord.”
I guess her search was successful after all.
I left Ronald behind as I entered the detectives’ room where I first met Sells and Rackler. They were there along with Captain Merton. Rackler was looking anywhere but at me while Sells had his head buried in a file. Merton was taller than Big Ray Vernon with jet black hair and a painted on smile. He had a face like lacquer, pulled back into a clownish mask. Everything about him was fake.
“Chief Bowery and Chief Wilson are in meetings with the Commissioner at the time and send their apologies.” I stood still, didn’t make a sound or a move. I wanted my face and all the scars to speak for me. “These detectives have been instructed to provide their full cooperation and place all the resources of the Wichita Police Department at your disposal.”