Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness (27 page)

"Think I did the right thing?" Ness asked.

Chamberlin shrugged. "Who knows? At least now you'll have something to tell Burton when he makes his daily ranting phone call to check on the progress of the case."

"My thoughts exactly."

"And when it's over, you can tell the press about it. It's got just enough dash and romance to turn a favorable article or two. COP WALKS

AMONG THE DOWNTRODDEN."

"That thought occurred to me also."

"And you need to be doing something you can... discuss with other people."

Ness raised an eyebrow. How much did Chamberlin know about the Unknowns? They worked closely together, but Ness had always kept that operation from him, or tried, anyway. Just in case there was trouble, he wanted Chamberlin to be clean. Not that the Unknowns had produced any more leads than anyone else so far. Despite the thousands of dollars Cleveland 's businessmen had poured into the operation, so far they had produced no killer. Not even a promising lead.

"Think Merylo will find the Butcher?"

Chamberlin thought a moment before answering. "Honestly? At this point, I'm not sure I believe he'll ever be caught. If there's a way to do it, we don't seem to know what it is. It won't be by conventional police means, that much is certain. The important thing, from a political standpoint, is that you appear to be doing something, pushing forward. It's the politics of motion. Not results."

"I want this blemish off my record, Bob."

"I know you do, but-"

"Once this is out of the way, I can get back to what I was brought here to do. There's still a lot more work to be done with those labor racketeers. And I hear there's a new bunch of rumrunners gathering around the Cuyahoga, looking for a way into the city."

"I know that, but-"

"You think the Great Lakes Exposition was big news? I think there's a chance I can get the national Boy Scout Jamboree here next year. Wouldn't that be something to see? The best boys from all across the nation, right here in Cleveland."

"That would be swell, sir, but respectfully-"

He was interrupted by the pounding on the door. Without even waiting for a response, Ness 's receptionist rushed in. Chamberlin couldn't think of a time when she hadn't waited-sometimes a good long while-for Ness to tell her to enter.

"Mr. Ness, there's a message for you." Her face was stricken, pale.

Ness and Chamberlin exchanged a glance. It was obvious what they were both thinking. "Not another one," Ness groaned.

She blinked. "Another-? Oh, another victim? No."

"Thank goodness. Then what is it?"

She walked the message she was holding over to his desk. "It's from the county sheriff. The one who replaced Potts."

"O'Donnell? What does he want?"

"He says-" She swallowed hard, then started again. "He says he's caught the Torso Killer."

Both Ness and Chamberlin rose to their feet.
"What?"

"That's what he says."

A thousand conflicting emotions raced through Ness's brain- hope, relief... and something else, as well. "How can he know? How can he be sure? He's probably just picked up some bum, hoping to get a little publicity and-"

"According to the sheriff," she said, handing Ness the message, "the man they've captured has confessed."

By the time Ness and Chamberlin arrived at the county sheriffs office, the press conference was already under way.

"... and so my men began looking for links between the victims- the three that the Cleveland police have managed to identify, at least tentatively-looking for someone who might have known them and might have had some reason to kill them. This was no easy chore, but perseverance and hard work always pay off in the end, and this case..."

Ness made his way forward, trying to get close enough to see what was going on without attracting the attention of the reporters. He did not want to appear to be basking in reflected glory; in fact, in this instance, he'd just as soon not be noticed at all.

The county sheriff, Martin O'Donnell, stood behind the podium reading his report in a deep gruff voice. The fact that he mispronounced several words suggested to Ness that he'd gotten someone else to write it. He was a middleweight man in a beige uniform that almost blended into the podium, but his shock of white hair glimmered in the noonday sun like a halo.

Just behind him, six of the sheriffs men flanked a seated man who clearly was not a member of the sheriffs department. He looked dirty and tired. His hair was greasy and he sagged forward in the chair, almost limp. He hadn't shaved for days. Ness noticed that his shirt was torn and soaked with sweat. Perhaps even more telling, he was clutching the right side of his rib cage.

But the most noticeable attribute of the man was his stare-straight ahead, penetrating, but at the same time, strangely vacant. He reminded Ness of a hypnotist he had once seen on vaudeville. As creepy as his expression was, it was difficult to look away.

"... and so I sent my men to a bar at the corner of East Twentieth and Central frequented by all three of the identified victims, as well as a horde of other prostitutes and pimps and petty criminals. One of my agents learned of a person named Frank who supposedly knew all three. In fact, he once lived with Florence Polillo. Expert investigative work soon led him to the man we now have in custody-Frank Dolezal."

O'Donnell gestured broadly, directing everyone's attention to the man seated behind him. The man-apparently Dolezal-took no notice. He continued to stare straight ahead with his spooky wide-eyed glare. Ness wondered if he ever blinked.

"The preliminary investigation into Mr. Dolezal revealed that he worked as a bricklayer-but previously worked in a slaughterhouse."

The reaction from the reporters was immediate. Pencils sailed across their notepads.

"Subsequent investigation revealed that he kept a stockpile of butcher knives in his home. We have obtained several reports from people indicating that he threatened them with the same knives. He lives in an apartment at 1908 Central, which as I'm sure you all know is very near where the remains of Flo Polillo were found, neatly wrapped up and placed in baskets. At this point, my men obtained a warrant and searched his apartment. What they found, gentlemen of the press, is nothing less than horrifying." He paused dramatically. "On his bathroom floor, and particularly in the bathtub, they discovered disturbing dark stains."

Ness had to give the man credit for at least one thing: He was spinning his yarn like a master storyteller.

"The conclusion seems inescapable. He knew the victims; he frequented the same bar. He had the weapons, the opportunity, and the violent nature. He killed these people in the bathtub, hacked them to bits, then washed away most of the evidence. But you don't have to rely on my reasoning, because after two days of intensive questioning by my officers, he confessed."

Once again, O'Donnell gestured toward Dolezal. "This man seated behind me has been the subject of the most intensive manhunt in Cleveland history." He paused looking straight out into the throng. "The Mad Butcher is Frank Dolezal."

No reaction from Dolezal himself. As soon as O'Donnell stopped talking, a dozen hands flew into the air. The sheriff recognized a reporter from the
Plain Dealer.

"Is it common for the sheriffs office to be involved in local murder investigations?"

"No," O'Donnell said, providing the answer everyone attending already knew, "but extraordinary crimes call for extraordinary measures."

"Did you inform Chief Matowitz that you were investigating the murders?"

"No."

"Is it appropriate for the sheriffs office to independently supplement the city police's ongoing investigation?"

O'Donnell took a deep breath. "Under the circumstances, I thought they could use all the help they could get."

Broad grins spread through the throng of reporters. There was no need to explain what that meant.

"What I don't understand," another reporter said, "is how you were able to catch this man so quickly, when the Cleveland police have been investigating for more than a year, and they haven't even produced a viable suspect."

"You'll have to answer that one for yourselves," O'Donnell said. "Or perhaps you could ask our esteemed Safety Director, Mr. Eliot Ness." He pointed out into the audience.

All the reporters whirled around.

Great, Ness thought. Serves me right for coming here.

The reporters began to swarm.

"Mr. Ness!" someone shouted. "What do you think about the sheriff solving your case?"

Ness's brain raced. There were two ways he could handle this. He could tell them what he really thought, or...

"The sheriff is to be commended for his investigation," Ness said. "The leads he has uncovered will, of course, be followed up."

"But the man confessed!"

Ness nodded, smiling. "My department and I stand ready to make available to the sheriff any information or facilities that could be of assistance."

The reporter from the Plain Dealer scratched his head. "But the killer has already been caught."

Ness kept his expression steady and unresponsive. "I hope so."

"C'mon," one of the other reporters said. "Tell the truth. This has got to stick in your craw. You've been looking for this guy for so long-and now the sheriff swoops in and puts him behind bars."

"Doesn't matter who does it, or who gets the credit," Ness said firmly. "What matters is that the killer is put away."

"And preferably before the elections, right?" O'Donnell said, bringing the attention back around to himself. "Perhaps the next time our Reform mayor decides to go reforming, he should look a little closer to home."

He folded his script and tucked it inside his coat pocket. "Now if you'll excuse me, my friends, we're going to continue interrogating this murderer."

Well, this was disappointing.

Or perhaps he should be pleased. No one was close to him, that much was certain. They were busy putting away this poor washed-up idiot, oblivious to the real threat that lurked in their town.

They would learn their mistake, eventually. There was no way around it. How long could he go without pleasuring himself again?

But there was no denying... he didn't like the idea of someone else taking credit for his work.

There was only one thing to be done.

"Work? In one of them breweries?"

"Isn't that what you want?"

"I'll take any kinda work I can get."

"Family to support?"

"Not so much anymore. Once upon a time."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Probably for the better. You a family man?"

"I was."

"Didn't work out?"

"You could say that. Shall we go?"

Later, back at the brewery, he encountered some... unexpected complications. If he had not had anesthesia, it would have been almost impossible, even granted his considerable strength. The Mad Butcher had received altogether too much publicity. People were on their guard. Even uneducated fools such as this one.

On the other hand, the lovely city officials said that the killer was in custody. What reason could there possibly be for apprehension?

At any rate, by the time the poor baboon awoke, he was trussed up and lying flat across the table.

"Hey, what's the big idea?"

"The idea is to prevent an interloper from taking credit for my achievements. Be still."

"What's with the axe?"

"You'll see."

"Don't do nothin' crazy now, mister. I can make you a lot of scratch."

"That explains why you're riding the rails and living in a trash heap."

"I'm just bidin' my time. I got a big score comin'."

"Do tell."

"I'm talkin' big time. Major league. Enough to set you up for life."

"I'm already set. Thank goodness for the kindness of close relatives."

"Let me help you, mister."

"I will let you help me."

"Get me offa this table."

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen. Pleasant dreams."

He swung the axe.

But it was even more unsatisfying than the last time. How long could he continue repeating himself, never facing any real challenge?

He had thought the safety director might provide that challenge, but the man seemed woefully inadequate for the role. He had taunted Ness, but the man seemed impervious to every slap on the face.

How much more would he have to do to get a response out of the famed Treasury agent? He'd killed more people than Capone ever did. When would he get his due?

If it didn't come soon, as it should, he would be forced to take certain measures. One way or the other, he would command the safety director's attention. He had earned that. It would be his. No matter what he had to do.

Peter Merylo desperately wanted a bath.

Even a quick shower would be something. He looked grimy, felt greasy, and reeked like an outhouse. Maybe none of the people he encountered noticed. But Merylo did. Normally, he was a tidy, fastidious man. He didn't dress up fancy like Ness, but he didn't let himself go. Until now.

He'd been undercover for a week, his beard grown and his clothes torn and dirty, traveling all around the Kingsbury Run area, searching for clues, talking to anyone who would talk to him, which so far, was not as many as he would like. He had expected that. He knew vagrants were a suspicious lot, and with reason. He would have to hang around for a while, become one of the regulars, before anyone would tell him anything useful. That was fine. He was in this for the long haul.

This time of day, most of the transients were either working, if they could find anything, or sleeping. He used the time to look around, at the people, the sorry excuses for homes, the abandoned buildings...