Ness took Wild by the arm and led him to the door. "Then why don't you go on your well-meaning way before that brick wall falls on you."
Now Wild put a sarcastic grin on his face. "It's your funeral, buddy boy. I'll see you tomorrow morning, round ten at that joint on East Forty-ninth, to do our vaudeville act… if you're still breathing."
And he left.
Ness waited five minutes, or what felt like five minutes at least, and soon was approaching the black Buick parked on a residential side street that was shady in several senses of the word, where more rooming houses, some frame, some brick, huddled like conspirators. He slid in on the rider's side.
Merlo, who hadn't seen Ness in his undercover attire, started for a moment, then smiled and shook his head.
"Hell," Merlo said. "For a minute there, I thought you were the Butcher."
Ness, shutting the door, killing the dome light, said, "Sam Wild thinks I'm an easy target-thinks the Butcher will see right through this."
"Maybe," Merlo said, "but I doubt it."
Actually, Merlo didn't look much like a cop tonight, either. He wore a checkered sportshirt and slacks and no hat. But then Merlo didn't ever look much like a cop with his scholarly glasses and thin, dour face, though tonight he seemed less dour. He was smiling, in fact.
"You look like the bearer of glad tidings," Ness said.
"That I am," Merlo said. "Your notion about checking the patient records of that dead colored dentist with appropriate Missing Persons reports, well… it paid off in spades, if you'll pardon the expression."
Merlo handed Ness a manila file folder and passed him a pocket flash. Ness opened the file and lit up the face in the photo: a black woman, attractive if slightly heavyset, about forty.
"Mrs. Rose Wallace," Merlo said. "Lived on Scoville Avenue-that's not far from where the skeleton was discovered. Been missing since August twenty-first of last year."
Ness studied the picture: the face seemed somehow both good-natured and hard. "Do you have anything besides matching the Missing Persons report to her name on the dentists list?"
"We sure do," Merlo said. "You were right on that account, too. We showed the bridgework to her son and he broke out crying. It was pretty distinctive-three gold teeth and all. He recognized it as hers, all right."
"Good, good," Ness said. "Any rap sheet on her?"
"No. But talking to her son and neighbors, it's clear she ran with a rough crowd-and in the same lowlife parts of town as Edward Andrassy and Florence Polillo. She worked in taverns. Maybe hustled. Heavy drinker."
An old car rumbled by; Ness clicked off the pen flash and the men sat in near darkness.
"Nice work, Sergeant." Ness smiled over at the detective, glad that he'd trusted his instincts and kept the dogged Merlo on the job. "You got right on top of this. I appreciate it. Hell, I admire it."
"Mr. Ness," Merlo said, "I eat, sleep, and drink this case. I go to sleep thinking about it-when I finally do go to sleep-and when I wake up, I'm still thinking about it."
"I know the feeling." Ness lifted a finger to one eye. "These aren't bloodshot for effect."
Merlo laughed shortly, then said, "I also have some preliminary info on your three suspects."
Ness had relayed the names to Merlo through Wild.
"Good," Ness said. "Anything interesting?"
"Nothing on the bartender, this guy Steve Fabian, other than some busts back in speakeasy days. He does own the place. What makes you suspect him?"
"Just that that saloon is his little world. A world where at least two victims-Andrassy and Polillo-did a lot of living before they died. He has relationships with all his regulars-they trust him. And he's pretty cold."
"Cold?" '
"I've talked to him about the Butcher a couple of times, and he doesn't seem particularly broken up that the victims include friends of his. And his eyes just kind of… glaze over, when the subject comes up. He seems detached. And, he's got a sadistic streak. He's his own bouncer-he tossed a kid out the other night and busted him up pretty good in the process."
"That's not much to go on," Merlo said.
"No," Ness admitted. "And the kind of joint he's running, he's running pretty close to form."
"What kind of joint is it?"
"Hangout for petty thieves and prostitutes. But it's more than that-it's a regular latter-day court of miracles."
"Miracles?"
Ness grinned lopsidedly. "Yeah-every evening half the beggars in town stumble in there and get miraculously cured. Backs get straight, missing limbs appear out of empty sleeves, blind guys match quarters with each other for drinks… must be something in the water, only nobody's drinking water."
"The dregs of humanity," Merlo said archly. "Perfect stalking grounds for the Butcher."
"One of those beggars was this fellow One-Armed Willie, who apparently knew both Andrassy and Polillo. He sounds like a suspect to me."
Merlo shrugged wearily. "Willie was able to prove he was out of town when several of the murders occurred."
"Willie seems to get around. Word at the tavern is he's hopped a freight to pick oranges in Florida-how many hands he's using, I'm not sure. Maybe we could talk to the Florida authorities. Even if Willies not a valid suspect, he ran in the same 'social circle' as the others. We need to talk to him."
Merlo nodded. "I'll get on it."
"Anything on Seleyman?"
Merlo shrugged again, not so wearily. "He's a Turk- got a laundry list of a rap sheet, petty stuff but a lot of it. He used to be a professional wrestler, barnstormed all over the country when he was younger."
"I want him shadowed," Ness said.
"I took the liberty of doing that already," Merlo said, somewhat sheepishly.
"Undercover guys?"
"Yes. But I told them to stay clear of that tavern of yours."
"Good. What are their early reports?"
"Seleyman does indeed have a petty shakedown racket going, in East Cleveland. Small merchants-shops, cafes, saloons."
"Tied in with the Mayfield Road boys?"
"Hard to say. You know, we have enough to bust him, right now…"
Ness shook his head no. "I want to clip him on more than a petty-racketeering rap."
"If he's the Butcher…"
"Let's wait till we have better reason to believe that that's so-then the petty-racketeering charge will keep him off the street, and out of his digs, long enough for us to send a team in and build the Butcher case."
Merlo nodded, looking at Ness shrewdly. Ness could sense Merlo's respect and gratitude-even if the scholarly-looking detective's feathers had been ruffled at first by Ness's intrusion into "his" case.
"What about Dolezal?" Ness asked.
"Well," Merlo said, "he's fifty-two years old, an immigrant. Speaks half a dozen languages, of which English is his worst. A plasterer and bricklayer by trade. Been on some WPA projects. Right now he's working over on Harvard Avenue for the U.S. Aluminum Company, where they say he's a good joe. Apparently was once a fairly well-to-do contractor. What arrests he has, you'll be interested to know, fall into an old category of yours."
"Oh?"
"He was supposedly a very successful if small-time bootlegger. Was in the money at the height of Prohibition- known to everybody in the district. I'm surprised you never ran into him."
"I didn't start working Cleveland till after repeal," Ness said. "But we were rounding up former bootleggers to testify in those police corruption cases last year. He must be one of the ones we were never able to track down."
"That's understandable," Merlo said, "because he's been seriously on the skids. We checked with his brother-in-law, who really is a cop, like that bartender said-a patrolman-which is where a lot of this info came from, incidentally. And apparently Mr. Dolezal hit hard times not so much because of the Depression, but because he keeps looking for the bottoms of bottles, and finding them."
"I've witnessed some of that," Ness said. "He put ten bottles of beer a
way last night. Have you got him shadowed, too?"
"Yes. For the last three nights. Last night he was in that tavern where you were, of course."
"And the nights before?"
"Various parks, approaching various men. Transient types."
"I see."
"If he's our boy, and we keep him shadowed long enough, we may catch him in the act."
"That's fine, but if so, let's try to catch him before he chops somebody's head off, okay?"
"Speaking of which," Merlo said slyly, "there is one other interesting fact about Mr. Dolezal's past."
"Saving the best for last, Sergeant?"
"You be the judge, Director Ness." Merlo smiled nastily. "A few years ago, between bricklaying jobs, the suspect worked in a meat-packing plant."
"Doing what exactly?"
"Slaughtering animals."
The two men sat in the dark and listened to the silence.
Finally Ness said, "The coroner and other experts think the Butcher has surgical training."
"Well, Dolezal obviously has at least some knowledge of carving, knows something about bone structure."
Ness nodded. Then he used the pen flash to study the face of Rose Wallace again, asking, "How goes the search for the murder lab?"
"Nothing has turned up as yet, but five teams of fire wardens, accompanied by detective bureau men I hand-picked, are out in the field. They're reporting to me, until you re back in your office. Oh, and Curry reported in from undercover today, as well."
"What did he have to report?"
"Not much so far. He's been hanging out at the shantytown at Canal and Commerce since Monday. Turned nothing up, to speak of. He came in this morning looking like hell-hasn't been sleeping, and who can blame him."
"Did you send him home?"
"Yes. Told him to get some rest. By now he's probably heading out again."
"To the other shantytown, this time, I trust."
"Right. The more spread-out one, not far from Jackass Hill."
"Good." Ness got out of the car quickly, then looked in the window. "Now, I have further instructions."
Merlo leaned forward eagerly. "Yes?"
"Go home," Ness said. "Get some rest yourself."
Then he walked back to the two-story brick tenement where he was inhabiting suite 3.
As he went up the creaking stairs, he noted a figure seated on the landing, using the top step for a chair. A gathered-into-itself figure, leaning against the wall, crying.
Ness slowed. The sound was eerie-like a child's sobbing. Soft, pitiful, plaintive.
And the man crying was Frank Dolezal.
"Frankie?" Ness said, stopping a few steps from where the blond man sat.
It was dark, but both men had their night vision in full swing. And Dolezal, his unshaven face wet with tears, squinted at Ness, then recognized him, uttering in a guttural slur, "Oh. Hello, Harry."
Harry was the name Ness had made himself known by at the nameless saloon.
"You okay, Frankie?"
Dolezal nodded yes, but said, "Not so good, Harry. Not so good. You want drink?" He offered a wine bottle in a paper bag.
"Thanks," Ness said, and sat on the step next to the man, pretending to drink from the bottle before passing it back.
Dolezal used both hands to clutch the bottle as he drank from it. That was good: Ness wanted both of Dolezal's hands in plain sight. Night vision or no, he wished he and his drinking partner were somewhere other than this unlit hall.
"I need move, Harry."
"What do you mean, Frankie?"
"Can't sleep. Room has ghost."
"A ghost?"
Dolezal nodded. He had a square head and haunted eyes.
"I need move," he said. "That woman still in my room."
"What woman, Frankie?"
"Flo."
"Flo?"
"Woman who get chopped up."
Both of Dolezal's hands held the bottle.
"Oh. Who do you suppose did that?"
Dolezal's eyes flared and he gulped at the wine.
"I think maybe it was that wrestler," Ness said.
"Abe?" He snorted; suddenly the nervousness, the fear, was gone. "I am stronger than him."
"I bet you are," Ness said.
Actually, the man seemed small to Ness, albeit stocky.
"I am very strong. More I drink, more strong I am."
Ness said nothing: he was watching the two hands on the bottle.
"All his fault."
"Whose fault, Frankie?"
"Damn Hoover. That goddamn Herbert Hoover."
Somehow Ness felt the former president would have an alibi for the Butcher killings.
Suddenly Dolezal put a hand on Ness's shoulder; the grip was surprisingly strong. "You drink much, Harry?"
"Too much, sometimes, Frankie."
"You ever… wake up and not know what you do?"
"Sometimes. That happens to you, Frankie?"
"Sometimes," he said gravely. He gulped at the wine, wiped off his mouth with a grimy hand, which he'd removed from Ness's shoulder. Then both hands settled back on the bottle, caressingly. "Sometimes I no remember."
"Do you remember Flo, Frankie?"
"I remember Flo. Fat gal."
"Flo Polillo."
"Flo. Fat Flo."
"Did you drink with her?"
"Yes. Many nights. Flo could drink. Rose, too."
Rose!
"Rose, Frankie?"
"Rose."
Ness watched the two hands on the bottle.
"Was Rose fat like Flo, Frankie?"
"Rose was big, but not like Flo. Colored gal."
"I don't think I know her, Frankie."
"Not see her in long time."
"Rose, huh? Can't place her… what was her last name?"
"Wallace."
Ness watched the two hands.
"I move tomorrow. After I get my check."
"Move, Frankie?"
"Ghost in room. And they search houses. You not hear, Harry?"
"Who's searching houses?"
"Cops or somebody. Looking in everybody house. Looking in everybody business. I move tomorrow, Harry."
Dolezal rose, shakily, bracing himself on the wall. Ness watched the man's hands, felt very aware of the flight of steps at his back.
But Dolezal only shuffled down the corridor, weaving like the drunk he truly was, and entered suite 5.
Ness entered his own "suite" and gathered his things. He, like Frankie Dolezal, had decided to move.
Only he was moving tonight.
Right this minute.
CHAPTER 9
Detective Albert Curry, his face stubbly, his denim work shirt and brown cotton pants raggedy, stood in darkness on the East Fifty-fifth Street Bridge and stared into the ravine that was Kingsbury Run.
Curry knew that the Run had once been a beauty spot with gardens and stone quarries and lakes-his working-class parents, Cleveland natives, had told him so; now it was sumac bushes and trash heaps and a stench-emitting pool. But on this almost-cool, overcast Thursday night, just past nine, you could see nothing more than the yard lights of the railroads. The sickle blade of the moon, glowing behind dark clouds, was no help.
Somewhere down there was the shantytown where he would become a resident. Somewhere down there, possibly, was the so-called Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run.
Curry walked back to his Ford sedan and began to drive, navigating deserted side streets whose occasional streetlamps were feeble against the night, matches lit in a vast dark room. He felt strangely unrefreshed from his all-afternoon sleep: the three days and nights he'd spent at the shantytown at Canal and Commerce had taken their toll. His apartment had seemed unreal to him, like something in a dream; the reality of the packing-crate world he'd been inhabiting lingered like a bad taste.
He felt hungover from the strange cocktail of boredom and fear: the boredom of long hot days mingled with the fear of long hot nights in the crowded cluster of sh
acks on a rubbish-strewn hillside just blocks from Cleveland's downtown.
He had met many homeless men, any of whom might be the Butcher, none of whom struck him as such. Some of them were down-and-out and others seemed taken by wanderlust. They were as young as eighteen and as old as seventy; there were a few families, women putting the wash out on makeshift lines, a few raggedy kids wandering about, though mostly the community had seemed male.
What was troubling Curry was something vague, something he couldn't put his finger on. Perhaps it was the lack of structure, which meant so much to a career cop like Curry. Meals seemed to happen now and then, time blurred meaninglessly, men came and went, without a hello, without a good-bye.
Or maybe it was that these men seemed to live in a different world, with its own ways, its own values. They were cleaner than he had imagined, many of them; there was less drinking; some of the men read papers, books, magazines-there was political talk, Red-tinged mostly, predictably. Bums were chased out when they appeared- shantytown welcomed hobos and tramps only. The hobos, he had soon discovered, were migratory workers; his cover story, of coming up from Florida having picked oranges, put him safely in that category. Tramps, it seemed, were migrants who occasionally worked-odd jobs and such- but did a lot of back-door begging at homes and restaurants. Bums were skid-row refuse to be disdained.
That was why the hobos and tramps were cleaner, better kept, than he'd imagined they'd be: you had to be clean to get that job; you had to be clean to mooch that meal.
He wheeled the sedan gently off Bessemer Avenue onto a dirt road, which wound behind the Ferro Foundry to a dump. He stopped beside a delapidated, deserted brick building, its windows dark and many of them broken-out. He locked and left the car here and began to walk, bedroll on his back. In front of him were flatcars; to the right, a sheer drop-off into that dark, stagnant pool, gurgling down there like a drowning man.
He found the least-steep place and made his way down to the banks of the foul pool where one victims parts (some of them) had turned up; the moon and lights from a nearby viaduct were silver on the water's greasy surface. The pool was separated from the railroad tracks by a narrow strip, thick with sumac bushes, though a footpath of sorts was there. He took it.
Branches reached out for him as he felt his way along. A breeze rustled the bushes, which he began to imagine hid the Butcher himself, and why not? This was the Run, after all, the Headhunter's stomping grounds…
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