Then Merlo, with a barely discernible sigh of disgust, leaned forward and continued to plead his case. "This is no time to pull back on the investigation," he said. "We have the best clue we've had in four years."
"Which clue is that?" Ness said.
"The quilt!"
Merlo was referring, Wild knew, to the many-colored, gingham-patched quilt in which had been wrapped the torso of the girl found in the lakefront dump.
"We picked up Elmer Cummings today," Merlo was saying, "a fifty-six-year-old junk man. We located him through a tip from a barber who saw the newspaper photo of the quilt and identified it as one he gave Cummings when the junk man came around his house, looking for rags."
Ness said nothing.
Merlo, obviously exasperated by the lack of response, pressed on. "Cummings says he sold the quilt to the Scoville Rag and Paper Company. We interviewed the owner, a William Blusinsky, and his six employees, today."
"And?"
"Well, they say the quilt may have been stolen from a large quantity of material delivered to the warehouse last week."
"Do Blusinky and any of his employees have criminal records?"
Merlo's confidence faded. "No. They seem to be respectable workingmen."
Ness sipped his Scotch. "Sounds like another blind alley to me. Any luck tracing the girls gold filigree ring?"
Merlo stared bleakly at the tabletop before him. "No," he said. He looked up. "But it's early yet."
"And you've established that One-Armed Willie is not a viable suspect."
Merlo nodded. "He was in various jails at various of the key times. He's clean."
"What about those two shantytown suspects? 'Ben,' and the guy with the jackknife who tried to jackroll Curry?"
"We haven't ascertained the identities of either- although Coroner Gerber feels the man whose remains were found in the dump fits Ben's description. Blond, five six, broad-chested, and so on."
"More blind alleys."
Merlo's expression was pained. "I know, Mr. Ness, but that's no reason to pull the plug on the investigation."
"I'm not pulling the plug on the investigation." Ness swirled Scotch in its glass, studied the dark liquid. "I'm just returning it to the homicide department. You're still assigned to the case, I understand."
"Yes, but we had greater resources with your office behind the investigation. Detective Curry and I were developing into a good team. Now, damnit…"
"What?"
"He seems almost… evasive. Doesn't even want to talk about the case."
Ness finished his Scotch. He waved for a barmaid to come over and ordered another, a double.
Then he said to Merlo, "It's my feeling that the case is closed."
"Not officially…"
"No. But after examining the evidence carefully, I feel the Butcher is, in all likelihood, out of commission."
Merlo's frustration was palpable. "You're not serious in saying that you think Dolezal was the Butcher…"
"It's the consensus of opinion," Ness said with an easy shrug. "The coroner has confirmed that all of the victims whose remains were discovered after Dolezal's death were very likely murdered before his death."
"That's an iffy assumption," Merlo said, "and anyway, those bodies were dumped after his death." Merlo paused to let that sink in. Then he said: "It was evidence to that effect that led us to raiding shantytown."
"And did we find the Butcher? Or any significant evidence of him or his possible whereabouts?"
Merlo sighed. Swallowed. "No," he admitted.
Ness sipped his Scotch.
"Well, if Dolezal really was the Butcher," Merlo said, "then he must have had an accomplice, who dumped the bodies later."
Ness seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps you'll turn that accomplice up."
"I mean to," Merlo said tightly, and slid out of the booth and turned to go.
"Sergeant," Ness said.
Merlo glanced back, his features hard.
"You've done excellent work. I admire your dedication."
Merlo's expression softened, slightly. "Thank you, sir."
"Good hunting." Ness raised his glass to Merlo.
Merlo smiled humorlessly, briefly, turned, and went up the narrow aisle out of the gloomy bar into sunshine.
"Only there is no accomplice," Wild said, moving to the other side of the booth, where Merlo had been sitting.
Ness sipped his Scotch.
"You oughta thank me, friend," Wild said pleasantly, lighting up a Lucky.
"What for?"
"For not busting out laughing when you said Frank Dolezal was the Butcher."
Ness smiled faintly again, swirled the Scotch in his glass, then drank some more, not sipping this time.
"Eliot. I've seen you drink plenty of times. But I don't remember seeing you drink before six o'clock. Not like this anyway."
"I gave myself the afternoon off."
"Well, I guess that's one of the fringe benefits of being the boss."
Ness winced. "Yes. I guess it is."
Wild gestured with cigarette in hand, making trails of smoke. "We're all alone back here. You care to tell me what the hell is going on?"
Ness locked eyes with Wild. "What do you know about it?"
Wild shrugged. "I know I was called in this morning by the publisher-not the city editor, not the managing editor, not the editor in chief-the goddamn publisher. And I was told not to write word one about Lloyd Watterson."
Ness smiled the faint smile again and looked away.
"Why hasn't he been arrested, Eliot? Why is Merlo still working the Butcher case without any knowledge of Lloyd Watterson at all?"
"Lloyd Watterson," Ness said evenly, "was committed to an asylum for the insane this morning."
"What? Where?"
"In Dayton. Maximum security. Under twenty-four-hour lock and key."
"Jesus."
"Can you think of a better place for him?"
"Sure! Death fucking row!"
Ness shrugged with his eyebrows. "Good point."
Wild sighed and stabbed out his smoke. "I need a drink myself"
He went up to the bar and got himself a boilermaker and returned to the booth.
Then he said,"So it finally came due, huh?"
"What did?"
"The bill from the mayor's financial angels."
Ness said nothing.
"The slush fund, the country club, the boathouse… all those nice perquisites. I told you they wouldn't come free, Eliot."
"Yes, you did."
The two men sat and quietly drank.
Then Ness said, "The mayor asked it as a favor. It was no backroom meeting, Sam. There was really nothing that smacked of…"
"Being touchable?"
Ness smiled again, wryly this time. "Nicely put. But then you reporters do have a way with words. What about you, Sam? Are you going to blow the whistle?"
"Are you kidding? When the publisher asks a favor, he isn't asking. And I never did have a conscience."
"The important thing is we got the Butcher."
"Yeah. We did at that."
They toasted glasses.
Wild grinned. "Ha! This is a sweet irony."
"What is?"
"Here I sit with the biggest scoop of my life, and I can't write it up. There you are, old publicity-hound Ness, cracked the biggest case of your career, something to make old Scarface Al look like a footnote in your scrapbook, and you can't make the bust. You can't take the credit."
Ness smiled on one side of his face. "It's called poetic justice, Sam."
"Where I come from its called getting screwed, but what the hell."
Ness laughed silently.
"Look," Wild said, "you shouldn't feel bad about this. We did get the bastard. He's out of circulation, and that's what counts."
Ness nodded.
"It might be different," Wild said, "if the city believed the Butcher were still at large. But with Dolezal as a scapegoat, that really takes a load off. Lloyd is getting denied his 'glory,' too, you know. You don't have to live with the thought of the good people of Cleveland looking over their collective shoulder, wondering if sometime the Butcher's gonna pop back out at 'em again."