"It's that fucking Butcher, isn't it?" she said through her teeth, her lips as thin and red as a razor's stroke.
"Please don't talk that way. It bothers me."
"Like those sick photos you been studying bother you. You don't like to admit it, do you, Eliot? That something can get to you. You like to think of yourself as an executive… a young go-getter who fresh out of college chose law enforcement because it seemed a good career opportunity. A wide-open field for somebody ambitious. Which is you all over."
"What's wrong with that?" he snapped.
"Well, you're only fooling yourself. If professionalism and career is everything to you, why don't you stay behind your desk and be an executive? Why do you insist on going out in the field to investigate, to kick doors down, to play cops and robbers?"
"You tell me."
"Because, first of all, you really do care. You really do believe in right and wrong, good and evil, you poor silly bastard."
"And what's second?"
"That's easy: you like it. You get your kicks that way. Literally, when it comes to doors."
He lowered his head, smiled a little. She had a knack, didn't she? A knack for seeing through him. A knack for knowing him better than he knew himself. A knack for being right.
She sat up, looked at him sharply. "Wait a minute. I know why you want me to move out."
He began shaking his head no, even before she continued.
"You've been studying those files-studying those sick pictures-reading all that horrible 'Mad Butcher' material… you're going to ask the mayor to give you the goddamned case!"
How did she do it?
Carefully he said, "Maybe I am going to be involved in something that… might make it dangerous for you to be around. Something that's going to require all my concentration… no distractions-"
"I'm a distraction now! It is the Butcher, isn't it?"
He sat forward, found himself almost pleading with her. "Viv, look. These killings have been going on for years. Just a month ago we had number nine, for God's sake. Somebody's got to do something."
"You."
"It's ultimately my responsibility, after all. I'm in charge of the police department."
"You're in charge of the fire department, too, but that doesn't mean you ought to go around pissing out every fire in town."
"Viv, please…"
"I don't know whether to kiss you or toss you into the lake. You're protecting me, aren't you? You don't want me endangered, isn't that it?"
That was part of it. Part of it, too; however, was that he really was intimidated by her. By her strength of character, by the sexual dynamo she became between the sheets.
And after weeks of studying the Butcher files-with their descriptions of emasculation and sexual assaults upon dead, headless bodies-sex, particularly sex that in any way deviated from the missionary-position norm, made him feel… funny.
But he didn't say that to her. He said only: "I have to do this. And I can't have you living with me while I'm taking an active role."
"You dumb sap. It's the most dangerous case in the history of the goddamn world."
"No, it isn't. He kills transients, this madman. He won't kill me."
She shook her head, smiling tragically. "A man who wants a conventional life with a wife and kiddies. Who wants to play it safe, he says, as he prepares to go toe-to-toe with the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run."
He shrugged. "It's my job."
"Oh, please! Spare me the Gary Cooper baloney! What does Matowitz say?"
"I haven't discussed it with the chief."
"What about Burton?"
"I haven't discussed it with His Honor, either."
"Do you really think he'll approve?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. He was thinking about threatening to resign if Burton vetoed his wish to tackle the Butcher case personally; but he was afraid he valued his job too much to risk it.
"Shit!" she said.
He was about to scold her once more for her language when he realized fat raindrops were plopping down just beyond their umbrella, splashing on them.
"We better get inside," he said, and took her arm and they rushed into the building. They watched the storm on the lake from a glass wall within the landlocked ship, waiting for it to subside so they could make their way to the car. But it finally became apparent the rain would not let up. They had to go out in it. They got very wet.
Rain beat on the roof of the boathouse as they made love through the night, not talking at all. It was still raining in the morning as Vivian packed her bags.
And in the coming days the rains continued, providing a damp Fourth of July for Cleveland and terrible attendance at the expo. The storms seemed as unrelenting as the Butcher himself. The heavy rains washed foliage and garbage and various other objects from the land into the Cuyahoga, and on the morning of the following Friday, the tender on the Third Street Bridge saw something floating on the oily river surface. The tender, John Haggerty, thought at first it was a dressmaker’s form, or a corset dummy like he'd seen in stores.
Then whatever it was took a roll in the current and Haggerty could see that it was a section of a human body- the lower half of a man’s torso.
Pretty soon a leg floated by, and Haggerety called the cops.
CHAPTER 3
The ride from City Hall began on Lakeside Avenue, then moved quickly to West Third, which jogged through the respectable heart of the city, turned into a hill, and fell to the Flats, where West Third leveled out, as did the respectability. The sleek black limo glided like an apparition of affluence through the shabby assembly of warehouses and saloons in the Flats, the bottomland area that was home to the crazily winding Cuyahoga River and the steel mills and factories that crouched there.
Faded brick buildings gave way to an open, overgrown field, alongside of which the limo pulled up. The uniformed police driver got out and was about to open the door for his passenger, but, as usual, that passenger beat him to it.
Mayor Harold Burton did things for himself.
He was a powerfully built, fifty-year-old, wedge-shaped man of medium height, whose broad brow, this sunny Monday morning, was creased in concern, his gray eyes half-circled with sleeplessness as he stood and contemplated the gray shimmer of the Cuyahoga, visible beyond the field. Beyond the river, beyond the industrial valley, fifty-two-story Terminal Tower loomed like a reminder of pre-Depression optimism. With a tight smile and a hand gesture, he indicated to his police driver to stay with the car. Then he started toward the river.
Burton wore a light brown suit, rather rumpled, and a battered gray hat; his wardrobe looked not remotely mayoral, with the possible exception of his dark brown tie and the gold stickpin, the latter presented him by the American Legion. He crossed the field quickly, the earth giving under his feet, still damp from the several days of rain that had let up just before dawn. The land here managed to look predominantly brown, despite patches of green weeds and wildflowers. The sun beat down harshly, though Burton-who had once done both farm work and lumber-jacking-did not mind it, in fact barely noticed it. His feet crunched the gravel and glass around the railroad tracks, which he stepped over, beginning down the very gentle incline toward the river's edge, where four men stood around a wicker basket.
One of the men was a middle-aged fellow in overalls and an engineer's cap; another was a young uniformed police officer. The other two, wearing suits and ties, might have been businessmen. Burton recognized one of them as Detective Albert Curry, who despite his youthful looks was ranked among the best investigators on the department and had for almost a year now been attached to the safety director's office.
The other man, a deceptively mild-looking individual in a smartly cut, dark gray suit and a blue and gray tie, was the director of public safety himself, Eliot Ness. Burton owed this man much-which, at the moment, made the mayor feel uneasy, even guilty, about the job ahead.
Working his way through the brush and the garbage-l
ittered shore, Burton approached Ness, and the two men exchanged tight smiles and shook hands with a certain ceremony. Curry, nervous in the mayor's presence, smiled a little when Burton offered a hand to shake.
"Sorry I had to cancel our appointment," Ness said to the mayor. "But this came up…"
"Think nothing of it," Burton said, waving it off.
In the midst of the small gathering of men, like a fire they might warm their hands at, was a wicker basket; in the basket was a human arm, obviously male, gray and somewhat decomposed, cut cleanly just above the elbow. The hand rested at the edge of the basket, as if about to grip it.
"Beautiful morning for such a grim task," Burton said.
Ness glanced at the sky as if the beauty of the day hadn't occurred to him, nodded, and introduced the man in overalls to Burton.
"This is John Haggerty," Ness said, gesturing to the man. "He's the bridge tender who spotted the torso and the leg Friday morning."
"Pleased to meet you, Your Honor," the man said as he and Burton shook hands. Haggerty's face held a haunted look; the circles under his eyes made Burton look well-rested.
"Your alertness is appreciated," Burton said, not exactly knowing how to commend an individual for spotting body parts floating down the river.
"It's been horrible," Haggerty admitted, clearly shaken, "just horrible. Yesterday some more of him floated by-rest of his torso, they said-stuck in a burlap bag. Then another leg. Then today an arm.. it's enough to make a man call in sick."
"I can understand that," Burton said, patting the fellow on the shoulder.
"What's it gonna be tomorrow?" Haggerty asked, his eyes a window on the horror he'd seen. "The damn head?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," Ness said coolly. "The head almost never turns up."
This seemed scant consolation for Haggerty, who touched his own head with a trembling hand. "If you gents don't need me… I… I better be getting back to work."
Burton glanced at Ness, who shrugged a little.
"Go right ahead," Ness said.
Haggerty walked along the pilings at the river's edge, where the gray Cuyahoga gently lapped, and moved quickly toward the low-slung drawbridge off to the left, retreating to the safety of his watchtower.
"This is a pretty lucky catch," Ness said, smiling, referring to the "fish" in the wicker basket. "The Butcher usually keeps the head and hands, you know. With fingerprints to work with, we may identify this one."
"That would be helpful," Burton said.
Out on the river a Coast Guard launch cruised; against the gray surface of the river with its oily yellow splotches, the white launch trimmed red and blue was an incongruously cheerful and colorful presence. Two sailors in crisp Coast Guard whites were aboard, one guiding the launch, the other watching the water; also on board was a thin man in shirtsleeves.
"That's Merlo," Ness explained.
"He's been on this case from the beginning," Burton said.
"Yes he has. He's a top-notch investigator."
"But he hasn't got the job done," Burton added.
"I believe in Merlo. No way I want him off the case. He knows more about the Butcher than anyone outside of the Butcher himself. But he needs support." Ness lifted an eyebrow, put it back down. "And the investigation could stand some fresh blood, if you'll forgive the expression."
"I agree," Burton said.
The sun went under a cloud and turned the Flats even grayer. It was cooler here, by the river. Oddly peaceful. Birds chirped and cawed; insects buzzed lazily; taller weeds, violet wildflowers, swayed. The wind in the weeds made a shimmering sound, like the soft riffle of playing cards.
"There's the other one!"
It was Merlo, standing in the motorboat, pointing.
Burton looked out toward the reflecting surface of the river, didn't see anything.
Ness said, "There." He pointed.
Now Burton saw it, something floating like white-gray driftwood. The launch cut its speed even further and eased over to it. One of the sailors, his sleeve rolled up, eased out beyond the edge of the boat and reached.
Then he pulled back into the boat and stood and held the severed limb in his hand and yelled, "Got it!"
The sailor was young and even at a distance you could see he was grinning. He lifted his prize in the air and waved with it. From here it looked like an extension of his own arm, as if a hand at the end of a grotesquely long limb was waving a greeting.
Ness was not pleased. "Put that thing down!" he called. "Be careful with it!"
Within the boat, Merlo was apparently making similar admonitions.
The young safety director seemed quietly outraged. "Doesn't anybody have a clue as to how evidence is handled or preserved?" He gestured to the wicker basket and its grisly contents. "That should be in a rubber evidence bag, zipped tight, kept away from the elements."
Curry and the uniformed cop exchanged glances, wondering if this question/accusation applied to them.
Burton said, "I've heard similar complaints from the coroner."
"We have little enough meaningful evidence in this case as it is," Ness said, "let alone handle it carelessly."
"Something definitely has to be done," Burton said.
"I agree."
"Let's talk," Burton said, and gestured toward the gentle slope of land behind them.
Ness followed the mayor to the edge of the train tracks. "About our appointment…" Ness began.
"No apologies necessary," Burton said. "I admit, though, that I was glad to find you'd made an appointment for this morning. I needed to talk to you. But when you canceled… well, let me say I was relieved to hear where you were."
"Relieved?"
Burton had to turn away from the frank, even naive gaze of his younger associate. Ness was perhaps the most intelligent, tirelessly hardworking, and cold-bloodedly fearless man Burton had ever encountered in his many years of public service; but the man would never understand politics. Ness would, Burton feared, always be unaware of the forces that shaped things; would, for all his experience in criminal justice, remain in this one way an innocent.
"I have to ask you to take a risk," Burton said.
"That's what I'm paid for."
"Eliot. Keep your enthusiasm in check for a moment. My conscience requires that I spell this out to you. I can't let you commit to this blindly, rashly."
"Commit to what?"
Burton sighed. "When you came aboard, I had to ask you to take a career risk that few men would have put up with."
Ness nodded matter-of-factly, as if to say, "So?"
Burton laughed, shook his head. How could he hope to get through to Ness on this subject?
When Burton had asked Ness to become his director of public safety, in December of '35, it had been with the condition that Ness would enter the office to much fanfare about his background as "the man who got Capone," the former G-man whose squad of "untouchables" had brought Chicago's mob to its financial knees. Burton, an independent who had been elected on a law-and-order platform, had faced a factionalized city council, much of which opposed him. In order to get his police and fire department budgets passed by this hostile group, he needed glowing press and had accordingly played upon Ness's reputation-and put that reputation on the line-by promising an immediate cleanup of the rackets, particularly of Cleveland's impossibly corrupt police force. Ness would have only a matter of months to accomplish the job.
If Ness had failed, after coming in to such fanfare, it would have been career suicide; but he had taken on the job eagerly.
And he got the headlines, putting dents in the local gambling and policy rackets while exposing a network of corrupt cops, specifically nailing the "outside chief," the high-ranking officer who oversaw this venal "department within the department." A score of other corrupt officers, exposed in a graft report personally assembled by Ness, were successfully prosecuted shortly after.
And Mayor Burton got his budgets passed.
"I swore to m
yself," Burton told Ness, "that I would never put you in that sort of spot again."
Ness said nothing; his head was moved forward, however, eyes slitted.
"Now I have to ask you to do much the same thing again, and I have no right to. You can say no. I won't hold it against you. Not in the least."
"Say no to what?" There was more than a hint of impatience in Ness's voice.
Burton gestured in a conciliatory manner. "You have to understand, Eliot, that while we've accomplished much, there is much yet to accomplish."
"I know," Ness nodded with a sour smile. "There's still corruption on the force. We still have gambling, policy… labor racketeering. None of it is gone."
"Strides have been made," Burton said. "Remarkable strides. And your deams of modernizing the force, of putting a patrol car within a half-minute of any home in the city, of reorganization of the traffic bureau, of instituting a juvenile delinquency unit… we need to make them come true. I have a great belief in your theories, and their practical application, Eliot."
"I appreciate that, sir."
"But the sad truth is, we have an election coming up."
Ness smiled. "You'll take that in a walk."
"It's not that simple. I'm running on the Republican ticket, but I'm perceived, correctly, as an independent. I'm going to be up against four challengers in the primary race, Eliot."
"Well, if there's anything I can do…"
"We'll get to that. You have to understand that for me to win I need more than just the support of the people. I need the support of the business community."
"You've had that in the past," Ness said. "I probably know that better than anybody."
"Yes, you do. The industrialists, the merchants, who came through with private funding for so much of the work you've accomplished, who've kept our slush fund full, have to be convinced that we're still worth backing. That we're not going to embarrass them and the community."
Ness frowned. "I don't understand… our successes have gotten us attention all over the country. The world! I've got clippings in my scrapbook from as far away as…"
Burton lifted a hand, gently. "Yesterday's news, as your friend Mr. Wild might say."
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