BUTCHER'S DOZEN (Eliot Ness)

by Max Allan Collins

  "All right," Curry said again.

  "Go on, then."

  "Mr. Ness, I still think—"

  "I know. You came up with two suspects on your undercover, and they're good suspects. You did good work. But we have no name on one of them, and nothing more than a first name on the other . . . 'Ben. Both have apparently taken off for parts unknown."

  "If I go back in," Curry said, face tight with eagerness, "I might find out more."

  "You or someone else will indeed go back into shantytown, " Ness said with a gentle smile and a hand on Curry's shoulder, "no matter how today works out. We have a long list of killings, and the M.O. shifts enough that we may have more than one killer."

  Curry nodded, smiled ruefully, said, "So you really figure this fellow Dolezal for our Butcher?"

  "It begins to look that way. I had enough to get a search warrant for his premises, and I've got enough to arrest him when he comes home after work."

  "You're going up there alone?"

  "Yes, but you're to follow him up, when he gets back, remember.

  "And I'm to honk the horn twice before I do."

  "Right. Once long, once short."

  Curry sighed. "Okay. Myself, I think you ought to take a couple uniformed men up there with you."

  Ness shook his head no. "If we fill this neighborhood with blue, somebody'll get spooked. Somebody could warn our boy, by phone, or he could warn himself by coming home to a sidewalk full of onlookers."

  "Oh-kay." Curry shrugged, smiled faintly, and crossed the street. There was no traffic to speak of.

  Ness went in and up the creaky stairs; he had no intention of presenting the search warrant to the landlady. He would go on into Dolezal's "suite" and begin tossing the place and present the document only if somebody asked to see it.

  As he neared the top step, he unbuttoned his suit coat. There was always a chance Dolezal, heavily hung over from the night before, might have stayed home from work. Ness had been in law enforcement long enough to know that you never took anything for granted. A surprise could be around any corner.

  A surprise was around this corner, but it wasn't Frank Dolezal.

  It was a big, pouchy-faced sheriff's deputy in khaki, overwhelming the folding chair he was seated on, reading a racing form, a big .45 revolver on his hip. He was sitting next to a door with a brass number 5 nailed haphazardly to it; less haphazard was a strip of paper, three inches wide, stretched across the portal saying: SEALED FOR INVESTIGATION—SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT.

  Number five was Dolezal's room.

  "What's the idea?" Ness asked the deputy.

  The deputy swallowed, folded the racing form up, and stuffed it under the chair. Then he stood and smiled; it was a nasty smile, but it seemed a little nervous, too.

  "Possible crime scene, Mr. Ness. Sheriff's office is investigating."

  Looking at the man through narrowed eyes, Ness said, "Do I know you?"

  "Uh . . . I'm Deputy Robert McFarlin, sir."

  "I've seen you before.

  "I was on the police department till! I retired, sir."

  A recent retirement, no doubt, Ness thought; one of the corrupt rats who scurried into a pension. This one had scurried further, into a position on the sheriff's staff.

  "No, that isn't it," Ness said. "I'll think of it."

  The deputy's smile disappeared; his white face seemed to go even whiter.

  "What about the man who lives in this apartment?"

  "His name is Frank Dolezal, Mr. Ness."

  "I know that. Have your people approached him?"

  "I'd guess he's been arrested by now."

  "What!"

  The deputy shrugged again. "The sheriff himself was going to arrest him this afternoon. At his job. Dolezal's gonna be taken over to the county jail for questioning."

  Ness fought the anger. "What case are you investigating, Deputy?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  "What case are you investigating?"

  "Mr. Ness—all due respect . . . but you ain't my boss. Your office don't have jurisdiction over the sheriff's office."

  Ness moved closer to the man and looked him in the face; the man was taller then Ness, but he seemed to shrink under the smaller man's gaze.

  "What," Ness asked, biting off the words, "case are you investigating?"

  The deputy swallowed and smiled and said, "Well, if you must know . . . the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. We cracked it. This fella Dolezal is him."

  Ness backed away. Fought the anger. Lost.

  "What in hell," he said, "are you people doing investigating that case? That case is most definitely under the jurisdiction of my office. What in the bloody hell ..."

  The deputy patted the air, and his smile was condescending now. Not at all nervous.

  He said, "Not all the bodies was found in the city limits, Mr. Ness. It's not just a city matter. It's a county matter, too."

  Ness stood and stared at the sheriff's department seal across the closed apartment door. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  He said, evenly, "That's true, Deputy. Technically, it's true. But your office has not been investigating those murders."

  "But we have. We just kept it to ourselves."

  "Where have I seen you?"

  The deputy swallowed. "I worked in the Fifteenth precinct."

  That figured.

  "That isn't it," Ness said. "I will think of it, Deputy. I will place you. And now I'm going inside that apartment and have a look around."

  McFarlin held up a hand in a stop motion. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Mr. Ness."

  "I have a search warrant, Deputy."

  "I think, all due respect, that search warrant is overrode by us being here first."

  "Are you a lawyer, Deputy McFarlin?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are you a judge?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are you the safety director of the city of Cleveland?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, I am," Ness said, and brushed him aside and removed the sheriff's seal and opened the door and went in.

  "Goddamnit ..."

  Ness turned and looked at McFarlin, who stood outside the room, looking in, as if afraid to enter, afraid to violate his own rule. "Did you want something, Deputy?"

  McFarlin, his face red, looked as confused as he was angry. And he couldn't find anything to say, though he clearly wanted to.

  "Why don't you go find a phone," Ness suggested, "and call your boss. Tell him I'm here, tell him what I've done. Go on. Shoo."

  McFarlin was shaking his head, no. "I can't leave the place unguarded ..."

  "I'll look after it for you. I'll keep all unwanted persons out."

  "I don't think ..."

  "That doesn't surprise me. Go call the man who does your thinking for you. He's going to want to be informed."

  McFarlin, the red leaving his face, said, "Don't touch anything."

  "Thanks for the advice," Ness said pleasantly, and shut the door in his face.

  The room Ness stood in was in some respects like the one he'd inhabited himself, down the hall, for four nights. The faded, failing floral wallpaper was even the same pattern, and much of the furniture was of the same gray-metal, institutional variety; but there were also pieces of furniture Dolezal had obviously added himself—a comfy sofa here, an oak dresser there.

  And Dolezal, who had a job after all, had managed in this tenement to inhabit something almost worthy of the term "suite." The large room was three rooms in one: a bedroom area off to the right, as you entered; a central sitting room area where the sofa was; and at left a kitchen area—a small icebox, sink, kitchen counter with cupboards, wood-burning stove, and table.

  Most impressive of all, Dolezal had his own bathroom—toilet and tub. No sink.

  Ness nosed around the large outer room carefully, poking with a pencil sometimes, touching things but not anywhere any other print was likely to have been left. He found little beyond Dolezal's well-worn c
lothing. There were no personal effects—no address book or picture album or family Bible. Perhaps the sheriff's investigators had already confiscated such items.

  In the kitchen area he opened several drawers and looked in. Knifes looked back. One he found, poking with his pencil among other silverware and utensils, was a long, slightly curved butcher knife. The whorls of wood in its handle bore dark stains. If the sheriff hadn't discovered and confiscated this yet, the room had probably only had one fairly cursory going-over. Good. He was getting an early look.

  He peeked in the icebox. Bare. Cupboards were bare, too, of any foodstuffs. Maybe that made sense: Dolezal was planning to move, after all.

  The bathroom was small and dirty, but even so the dark stains on the floorboards stood out starkly. He knelt. Bloodstains? He glanced underneath the bathtub; to the two legs closest to the wall clung a considerable gathering of dirt and something brownish red that might be rust. Or might not.

  He stood. Hands on hips, eyes wide, he took it all in. Could this unkempt little chamber be it? The "murder lab" his people had been so diligently searching for? This was no soundproof room; the icebox in the other room would hardly provide the refrigeration he had assumed the Butcher would need; and while you could clean this bathroom easily enough, it hadn't been scrubbed down, not lately. It was filthy. Could his theories have been this far off the mark?

  He shook his head and took off his suit coat and folded it neatly over the edge of the tub. Then he took a small penknife from one pocket and two tiny manila evidence envelopes from another. With the penknife, kneeling again, he took a small but sufficient scraping of the black-stained wood of the floor and baseboard. He reached an arm way in under the bathtub and took a small but sufficient scraping of the apparent rust and filth collected around one clawed foot of the tub.

  He tucked the knife and the two evidence packets in his pocket and rose and put his suit coat back on.

  He was exiting the bathroom into the outer room when the door opened and the deputy came in.

  "The sheriff says I shouldn't oughta let you out of my sight," McFarlin said.

  "Then you're going to have to ride over to my office with me," Ness said, brushing by the man, "because that's where I'm headed."

  The deputy followed Ness out in the hall. Called after him. "The sheriff said to tell you we got this case under control. He's going to have a signed confession by morning."

  Ness whirled and stared the deputy down. "How can he know that?"

  "Well . . . he's just confident we got the right man."

  "A little third degree'll do the trick, is that it?"

  "He's bein' questioned," McFarlin shrugged. He pointed back into the apartment. "We got bloodstains in there. Human blood."

  "Has a chemist checked it already? Identified it as human?"

  McFarlin smiled and nodded smugly.

  "Too fast," Ness said, almost to himself. "You're moving too goddamn fast."

  "Look," McFarlin said impatiently, "he's the guy. You oughta to know."

  "I oughta to know? And why is that?"

  The deputy looked away. "Just go about your business, why don't you?"

  Ness snapped his fingers. "You were in the tavern the other day. You stood right next to me."

  The deputy flushed. "What are you talkin' about . . ."

  Ness pointed his finger at him. "You spotted me. You've been following me ever since."

  "Don't be silly."

  Ness grabbed the bigger man by the front of his khaki shirt. "You stole my case from me, you son of a bitch."

  "Hey, take it easy!"

  Ness let go of him, pushed him hard with the flat of a hand into the wall.

  The deputy was trembling with rage or fear or maybe both. With one hand he smoothed the front of his shirt; with the other he pointed toward the stairs. "You just better get out of here. You better get out.

  Ness thrust a finger in his face. "Don't louse my case up. Tell your boss. You stole it from me, well, fine. Just don't louse it up."

  He turned and went quickly down the steps, making a lot of noise on the rickety boards, and was out on the street. He gestured to Curry, seated in the black Ford across the way, and Curry put his newspaper down and joined his chief.

  "What's up?"

  "Interlopers," Ness said disgustedly. "Go around back and get Merlo. I don't want to have to tell this story twice."

  When Curry came back, Ness was seated in the car, on the rider's side. Merlo got in back and Curry got behind the wheel. The three men sat there and Ness told the story.

  "It's my own damn fault," he said. "The son of a bitch made me. He was in that tavern and recognized me."

  "What was he doing there in the middle of the afternoon?" Curry asked.

  "Probably collecting graft," Ness said. "He's one of the sheriff's bagmen, no doubt. This is one area of the city we haven't cleaned up, you know."

  Merlo, in the back, was in shock. Curry seemed confused.

  Ness set in silence, trying to fight off the gloom.

  Finally Merlo said, "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."

  They were still sitting there at a quarter to six when Sam Wild showed up. He noticed them clustered in the car and leaned in the window on Ness's side.

  "I know I'm early," Wild said, wryly apologetic, straw fedora pushed back on his head, "but I'll keep out of the way. I got a photographer in the car to take the pic when you haul him out in cuffs. This is gonna be a big moment, gentlemen."

  "I don't think so," Merlo said.

  Wild looked hard at Ness and knew at once it was scratched. "What the fuck happened?"

  Ness, without looking at the reporter, said, "Off the record?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Off the record."

  "The sheriff made saps out of us," Ness told him. "Me especially." And, despite his best efforts, he found himself telling the story a second time.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Wild said. "They're going to muck it up."

  "I know," Ness said. "They don't have the evidence yet. And they don't have the wherewithal to gather it, either."

  "Well," Wild said with a humorless smirk, "they had the wherewithal to gather your suspect."

  Ness said nothing.

  "You gotta give me something," Wild said, some desperation in his voice. "I promised my boss a big story."

  "Get out your notepad," Ness told him.

  Wild did.

  "The sheriff is to be commended for his investigation," Ness said. "The leads he has uncovered will, of course, be followed up to see what possible connection the suspect may have with other homicides."

  Wild got that, then said, "Which means you're still on the case."

  "Yes, it does. Now ask Sergeant Merlo for a quote."

  Wild looked toward the backseat.

  Merlo looked toward Ness, who glanced back at him and said, "Say what you feel."

  Merlo smiled and nodded and said to Wild, "I consider the sheriff's actions an intrusion into a case that was well under way and well under control. The suspect, Dolezal, is known to me and has been under my surveillance for some time. We were waiting for the right moment to slam down on him. Now the sheriff's office has spoiled it."

  Writing furiously, Wild got that, too. Then he grinned at Ness. "Between the two of you," he said, "you covered everything—including your own ass."

  Ness managed to grin back. "That was the point of the exercise." Then the grin faded and he said, "Now if you'll excuse us, Sam, we have to be getting back to work. I have some evidence to process."

  And they left the reporter there, smiling and scratching his head.

  CHAPTER 11

  Frank Dolezal sat in a wooden chair in a large concrete room in the basement of the Cuyahoga county jail. The chair was the only furniture in the room. A single window, high up at right, was barred; beyond the bars was wire and night. A single lamp descended from vague darkness, hanging rather low over the chair, providing a cone of blinding bright light.

  Doleza
l slumped in the chair, his ruddy face wet with tears and rough with stubble, eyes burning from the light, feet dancing without rhythm, fingertips on knees drumming to no cadence. His blue cotton workshirt was perspiration soaked, and soiled. He was a mess. But even more than a shave and a change of clothes, Frank Dolezal needed a drink.

  He didn't know how long he had been in this room. He figured it was hours, but how many, he couldn't guess; he could barely remember not being in this place, this cold, vast, gloomy bunker. Relays of deputies and county detectives, occasionally the sheriff himself, had been trading off questioning him, in pairs. They hadn't hit him yet, but he sensed that was coming. He wished he could tell them what they wanted to know. But the truth was, he couldn't remember.

  And he was beginning to think the truth was not what these men wanted to hear.

  He grabbed at his stomach; if only it would stop clutching. Every thirty seconds or so a spasm would hit him. He knew what would stop it: a beer. One tiny little beer. Or better, a shot. Or a double; that would do it. Then he'd be calm. He'd be able to relax. His head would stop aching. His mouth wouldn't feel dry. As it was, he felt helpless. He felt tired. He felt weak.

  Despite this, he got up and began pacing the room, though he had been told not to leave the chair. He just couldn't quit moving. He avoided the bright pool of light where the chair waited and wandered the dark outskirts of the large room.

  The heavy steel door—marked: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—swung open and the sheriff strode in. He was a big fat man with a head as square as Dolezal's; his khaki shirt was soaked with sweat. He was bareheaded and had a rubber hose in one hand. Another big man, a deputy named McFarlin, who'd been in here before, trailed after him.

  Dolezal's eyes squeezed shut as he willed this sight to go away, knowing it would not. Knowing that the time for beatings had come.

  "Frank," the sheriff said with an awful yellow smile, beating the rubber hose casually in a big fat open palm, "you weren't supposed to get outa that chair, now, were you?"

  Dolezal swallowed. "No, sir."

  The sheriff moved quickly—amazingly so for a man his size—and smashed the top of the chair with the rubber hose; some wood chips flew.

  "Sit, Frank," the sheriff said, as if to a dog.