“There’s one more,” said Bennie, and handed another newspaper to Francis. “This is from May.”
Gary Register
The body of a twelve-year-old girl was discovered in a drainage canal near Simons Road on Tuesday evening. Police are seeking information as to the child’s identity and as to whether local people have sighted any vagrants in the vicinity. Any individual who has witnessed suspicious behavior or has any other information to impart, please contact Constable Musick.
Francis looked at Bennie. “Did they ever identify her?”
Bennie nodded. “I telephoned the Gary police captain yesterday. Gypsy girl, she and her family were camping in a field about ten miles from town. They arrested the father, but turns out he’d been working on a farm nearby for some months, and the farmer said he’d been there the day the girl disappeared.”
Francis replaced the papers in the satchel. He thought for a minute before speaking.
“So. A girl’s killed at Dreamland four years ago.” He moved aside the water glass, drew an X in the condensation left on the table. “Then one in Wonderland that same year.”
He drew a second X, and a third, and two more. “Another girl in Gary. And another here in Chicago, still missing from two years ago, presumably dead. And now two more at Riverview.”
He dabbled a finger in the moisture and drew a six-pointed star connecting the Xs. “Dreamland, Wonderland, Riverview…that’s four girls killed at an amusement park, three of them murdered in a Hell Gate ride. How can they not be related?” Francis stared intently at the star. “What was the cause of death in Gary?”
“The captain says it was asphyxiation. Partially clad body. Which sounds like the same killer.” Bennie took a long swallow of his beer. Despite his exhaustion, he looked exultant. “What do you think? Sounds like a vagrant to me, traveling between here and the East Coast.”
“No,” said Francis. “A vagrant wouldn’t be so organized. The amusement parks—they’re too far apart. And there’s four years between those first two murders and the ones this weekend.”
“He could be a hobo, riding the trains,” insisted Bennie. “And those murders are only the ones we know about. There might be others. Dr. Holmes’s killings, some of them weren’t discovered for years.”
“I don’t think so. A hobo can ride the rails for free, but he’d have to be awfully committed to his crimes to travel so far.” Francis rubbed his chin. “It’s someone who has an affinity with amusement parks. Or maybe just with the Hell Gate ride. Or water—the rides, the girl in the canal in Gary.”
Bennie cocked his head. “What about Elsie Paroubek? She was found in a sewage ditch.”
“I don’t think so,” said Francis slowly. “For one thing, she’s the wrong age—five. A twelve-year-old, she’s still a girl, but she’s starting to look like a grown-up woman.”
“Not to me, she doesn’t.”
“Of course not. But think about it—Blanche Sweet, Mary Pickford, Gladys Egan, those Gish girls—they’re all grown women, but in the movies they make them look like kids. Some of them were kids when they started, twelve, thirteen years old.”
“So, what? You think this is someone who watches the movies, gets titillated, then goes out looking to murder a kid?” Bennie polished off one of his sausages and started in on the other. “I don’t buy it.”
“All I’m saying, it’s not necessarily crazy that someone might look at them as women, not girls. I mean, it is crazy,” Francis quickly added, “there’s no doubt about that.”
Bennie sipped his beer. “Well, maybe,” he allowed. “I heard they’re going to question Charlie Chaplin—he was with the Walewski girl before she was killed, did you know that? And everyone knows Chaplin likes young girls. Not this young, maybe, but fourteen, fifteen. And you’ve heard the rumors about Beery? There’ve been complaints about him and underage girls at Essanay for a while now. He may have to leave the studio and head west.”
“How do you know all this?”
Bennie grinned. “That’s my job.”
“So you think it’s a movie actor?”
“Nope. I think it’s probably a vagrant. Or a Gypsy. Gypsies travel, and a caravan can cover a lot of ground in a year. Some of them join sideshows for the season—whoever this is, he could have worked at Dreamland, then Wonderland, and now Riverview. I heard there’s some Gyppo fortune-teller working there now.”
“It’s not goddamned Gypsies,” Francis said heatedly. “And it’s a woman working at Riverview, not a man. And she’s not really a Gypsy.”
“A sensitive point, I gather,” observed Bennie. “Well, there you have my contribution. How about introducing me to the kid who found the girl’s body?”
“I have another bit of news.” Francis leaned across the table, lowered his voice, and told Bennie about the notebook. When he finished, Bennie whistled softly.
“Did you copy down the contents?”
“No. I had to turn it in as evidence.”
“Too bad. Can you remember what was in it?”
“Records of horrible crimes. Decapitations, women being buried alive.”
“Anything specific about young girls? Or amusement parks?”
Francis nodded. “The word Hellgate—it was the last thing he wrote in the book.”
“And you found it in the fortune-teller’s booth? The same woman whose son came across the body in Hell Gate? The evidence seems to point straight at him, Francis.”
Francis struggled to keep his temper. “The boy’s so underfed, he couldn’t strangle a chicken. His mother says he’s starting high school in a month, but he looks about twelve. And others can vouch for his whereabouts at the time.”
“Who?”
“A man associated with a detective agency called Gemini, who also claims to have seen a man entering Hell Gate with the Walewski girl.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“No. We haven’t questioned him. But the boy spoke to him and—”
“The boy claims to have spoken to him,” said Bennie in exasperation. “This notebook—would a murderer really keep a record of his crimes, then leave it in a fortune-teller’s booth? Can you remember anything else he wrote in it?”
“No! But what kind of person writes about killing a woman, then stuffing her down a chimney? Or sealing up a cat inside a wall?”
Bennie stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Edgar Allan Poe, for one. There’s a cat walled up with a body in ‘The Black Cat.’ And an ape kills a woman and hides her down the chimney in ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”
Francis flushed. “Are you joking?”
“I am not.” Bennie wiped his eyes. “Sounds like that notebook belongs to someone aping Poe—forgive the pun.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain Poe wrote the stories I just mentioned, and a few others about women being buried alive. Look, there’s no way of knowing whether this notebook belongs to our man. If it does, he’s extremely careless. Maybe he’s getting reckless as time goes on.”
Bennie gulped a mouthful of coffee. “I’m betting it’s a vagrant, Francis, and that notebook belongs to some kid who spends too much time reading ghost stories. Maybe the boy who found the body.”
“It’s not him,” Francis snapped.
Bennie shrugged. He tipped back the rest of his beer, retrieved his satchel, and stood. “Thanks for the tip about the Monahan girl.”
“What will you do with those?” Francis pointed to the satchel.
“Sell a million papers.” Bennie grinned again, then grew serious. “Look, unless someone comes forward and reports a child missing in Dreamland the day of the fire, we can only speculate about what they found at Coney Island. Girls get killed all the time. It’s the way of the world, Francis. Nothing we can do about it.”
He tossed some change on the table for his breakfast. Francis did the same, and the two returned outside. The grey early morning had grown dark, the sun obscured by bruised clouds that portended sto
rms.
“I’ll be in the park soon as it opens,” said Bennie as they walked back toward Western Avenue. “So point that boy out to me, will you? Just a few words with him, that’s all I want. I’d like to talk to his ma, too.”
He gave Francis a sidelong glance, but the policeman said nothing.
Chapter 66
DISTANT THUNDER RUMBLED as he walked along the North Branch, the stagnant air bearing a faint scent of offal from the stockyards miles away. At the crook of the river, tramps had set up an encampment cobbled together from planks and moldering canvas. Four of them crouched around a smoky fire, Gypsies or unemployed brick workers who’d wandered down from the Sicilian ghetto. They watched him pass, their unshaven faces silent and suspicious, as though he was the outcast.
A gaunt mongrel pawed at something on the path—a dead smaller dog, he saw as the larger one slunk off. He sidestepped the lump of flesh and scrambled up the embankment, followed a derelict fence until he found an opening and slipped back onto the street.
He fumbled in his pocket for the box of lemon drops he’d doused with heroin syrup, took two, and chewed them. He needed calm in order to think, to act, to work. The cordial helped, but he’d emptied the last vial, and only a few lozenges remained. He needed to find a druggist.
He’d chosen this part of town because of its proximity to one of the poorer Irish neighborhoods. But even poor people needed a drugstore. He passed saloons and pawnshops, a knacker’s and countless stoops where old women sat and stared into the street, before he finally spotted a faded placard sporting a mortar and pestle.
Inside, a wizened man in a white coat stood on a stool, fiddling with a light fixture. “They promised me these bulbs would burn for a year,” he said, looking down accusingly at the newcomer. “This is the third one I’ve had to toss this month.” He stepped down from the stool, still scowling. “What would you like?”
He eyed the shelves behind a scuffed wooden counter. “Do you carry Sydenham’s syrup?”
“I do. Jadway’s, too—my daughter gives that to her little boy.” The druggist removed a small box, squinted at the label, and set it on the counter. “That’s Sydenham’s.”
“I’d like two, please. Twins,” he added. “And, well, as long as I’m here, I’d better buy three.”
“Twins! I would think so.” The druggist placed two more boxes beside the first. “Anything else?”
He picked up one of the bottles and pretended to read the label. “Yes, now that you mention it. Some lemon drops—I’ll take three of those, too, if you have them.”
The druggist reached under the counter and produced three tins. He set them down and gave the other man an inquisitive look, his gaze lingering on his chin. “Now, don’t you think that’s very odd? Not half an hour ago, a policeman was here, and he asked about those very things.”
His body went cold. Quickly he lowered his head and pulled out his wallet. “A policeman with twins?”
“No. He was—”
The druggist’s gaze flicked from the other man’s face to the items on the counter. “It was about those murders. The girls in the amusement park.” With a shrug, he drew out an account book, a pencil attached to it by a piece of filthy string. “But these aren’t the first infant remedies I’ve sold today. Mrs. Halloran’s kids got the colic. Not the only lemon drops, neither. Just not all to the same person. Anything else?”
“That’ll be all.”
The druggist totted up the items, took his money, put everything into a paper sack, and pushed it across the counter. “I hope this helps your twins. Boy and girl?”
“Two girls.”
“Ah, the girls. I have three of each. Girls are more trouble. Then they grow up and cause a whole new set of problems.”
He took the bag and hurried outside, right into a woman toting a laundry basket. Its contents spilled to the sidewalk as she shrieked.
“See what you’ve done! All clean and now look! That’s my wages!”
He looked over his shoulder to see the druggist stepping outside.
“Mrs. Rooney? What—”
“That bastard knocked me over and never even saw me! He needs a clout to the head, that one!”
He kept tight hold of his hat, racing down the first alley he saw, kept running until he reached a busy street.
Chapter 67
FRANCIS!”
Hickey called across the station’s crowded main room, waving him over. Francis made his way to join him beside the reception desk, past a number of Chicago policemen along with seemingly everyone from the Riverview force. Paterno stood off by himself—reprimanded, no doubt, for his failure to prevent yesterday’s murder.
“Glad you’re here.” Hickey rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers. “Wasserman’s due any minute. Baumgarten wants him to meet with us first, before Cabell and the reporters arrive.”
Francis removed his helmet, swiped a hand across his forehead. “Sweet Jesus, it’s hot in here.”
“Baumgarten wants everyone on duty from now till closing.”
“Anything new?”
“Not a goddamned thing, except for these.” Hickey grabbed several newspapers from the desk and shoved them at Francis. “Baumgarten says they’re reporting it in San Francisco and New York City.”
Francis scanned the screamer headlines on the front pages of the Tribune, the Journal, the Evening Post:
Second Girl Murdered at Riverview
Child’s Death Shakes City
Amusement Park Killings Continue
“There’s more.” Hickey jabbed him with a copy of the Daily News, folded open to a long article:
Slaughter of the Innocents
“Read it,” ordered Hickey. Francis only had to glance at the first paragraph to know it had been penned by Hecht.
“And you’ll want to take a look at the advertisement Baumgarten’s placed in those papers as well,” Hickey went on, his tone ominous. But before Francis had a chance to do so, the station door opened, and James Wasserman, the park’s press agent, strode inside.
“Here we go.” Cursing, Hickey bulled through the crowd to meet Wasserman. Francis tossed the papers back onto the desk and angled for a better view.
“You all know why we’re here.” Hickey’s voice boomed through the room, and everyone fell silent. He pointed at the park’s press agent. “Any questions, please direct them to Mr. Wasserman.”
James Wasserman rose and nodded. Rosy cheeked and blond, he would have benefited from a stool to stand on, also a megaphone.
“This will be brief,” he announced in a piping voice. “I know you’re eager to get to work. Mr. Baumgarten asked me to thank you for everything you’ve done to maintain Riverview’s safety during this trying time.”
He glanced around as though expecting applause, instead met several dozen baleful gazes. The press agent’s face grew pinker. He cleared his throat and continued.
“Mr. Baumgarten has offered a one-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of this madman. I’ll share this news when I meet with reporters at ten, so I’d appreciate it if you kept it under wraps until then. In addition, Mr. Baumgarten has arranged for a special entry today, with all families with children to be admitted free.”
Francis stared at him in disbelief, as other sergeants began yelling angrily. Hickey raised both hands to command silence.
“Hear him out!” he shouted, but his expression mirrored those of the men around him. Wasserman’s head bobbed up and down like a tin duck’s in the shooting range.
“That’s right,” he said, his voice cracking. “You all know how Mr. Baumgarten arranges free days throughout the season—Newsboy Day, the Milk Drive. He wants everyone to know that Riverview is open for business, and that our business is people enjoying themselves, especially children. He will personally make up the difference in whatever revenue is lost, and add that to the amount of the reward.”
“That’s crazy!” a man shouted above the angry chatter. “You’re encouraging par
ents to bring their kids here while there’s a murderer loose?”
“People need no encouragement—do you know how many visitors we had yesterday? Nearly seventy thousand. It’s probably safer here today than it’s ever been.” Wasserman’s quavering voice steadied, as though emboldened by his own words. “Forty Chicago sergeants will be on patrol, most of them in plain clothes, and that isn’t counting all of you. Commissioner Deneen is arranging to meet with several Pinkerton agents, and if needed they will be called into the park as well.”
“How come they’re not here now?” someone demanded.
“It takes time to get here. And it takes money, too,” Wasserman said. “Our resources are not unlimited.”
“This isn’t the Milk Drive,” broke in O’Connell. Every summer, Riverview donated admissions from a single Saturday to buy milk for the city’s poor children. “It’s a stunt, pure and simple.”
“It will reassure the public.” Wasserman’s tone grew heated. “Make them feel safe. Advertisements are in all this morning’s papers, and we have snipers putting up posters across the city. Both Mr. Baumgarten and I believe that whoever committed these crimes has hopped a train out West, and if he has any sense, he’ll stay there. If he doesn’t, well, we have the resources to take him on. Now, unless someone has an urgent question, I’ll leave you to your duties.”
Wasserman swiftly made his way to the door as Chief Hickey raised his voice above the fracas.
“Enough, gentlemen! If you have any questions, you can direct them to me—and I mean questions, not complaints.”
“Christ,” muttered a man beside Francis. “Even if our man’s in Denver, we’re going to be ass over teakettle with kids and crazies.”
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