“You think the scientists will ever learn to determine animal from human blood?”
“Perhaps . . . some day.”
“In the next century perhaps?”
“Time will tell, but I know there are men in the universities working on it. Just imagine it, lads, a case in which we can get a blood-type match to prove it is indeed human blood on the man’s shoe or apron and not some slaughtered animal.” Griff shook his head. “I still have no clue how they intend ever to do blood typing.”
“Trust me, nobody knows,” replied Ransom. He took a long drag on his pipe. “Now, Michael Shaun, how’d you like to do some detective work under Inspector Drimmer’s guidance?”
“ ’Twould be an honor, sir.”
“Have O’Malley here help you go through the Bertillon cards for a match on that handprint, and boys, go at it with a vengeance.”
O’Malley’s eyes rolled as he realized that Ransom and Griffin had snookered him into doing the most tedious time-consuming, brain-numbing police detection work on the force, going through the Bertillon cards. He silently mouthed a string of curses.
“If he’s never been arrested in our city, Ransom, he won’t be in our card files,” cautioned Griff.
“If not, we try New York’s—with O’Malley’s help.”
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“Then you think Tewes was telling the truth about New York?”
“Who knows?”
O’Malley mildly protested. “Sir, I—I’ve me own duties, and with the I-ID cards, we’re talking hours, possibly days, and—and me duty sergeant, he—he ain’t likely to OK—”
“And your duty sergeant’s name?”
“P. J. O’Hurley, sir.”
“I’ll smooth it over with the man, Mike. We all want you to make junior grade, and I’m sure O’Hurley, too, has your best interest at heart.”
Griff took Ransom aside. “Do you give any credence to Dr. Tewes’s claims?”
“Sure and why not, Griff? Tewes is as psychic as that Jack terrier of yours.”
“Now you’re getting personal.”
“Our guy, whoever he is, certainly likes playing with fire.”
“So we gotta check for all firebugs in the system first.”
Ransom nodded. “I suspect it’s just his way of adding one more element of the spectacular to his crime.”
“After headlines?”
“That or he plain bloody likes to watch ’em burn. Maybe something symbolic in it for the bastard. Shakespeare used fire as a symbol, and Plutarch before him, so why not our killer?”
“Whataya thinking? He’s a gentleman of refinery, knows Shakespeare?”
“Did I say that now?” Ransom scowled across.
“I was just—”
“—thinkin’ aloud? Some sort of evil genius? Evil yes, genius no. Find it odd, though, that the faces in every instance have been spared.”
Ransom thought the victim himself far too young and innocent to have a criminal record. In fact, he looked, beneath all the smut, like a child in a Rembrandt depiction of a Dutch peasant family. A fingerprint from the severed fingers would 36
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in all likelihood prove valueless. Still, that tedious chore of doing something useful in a scientific method with the fingers would be left to the coroner, the now famous, indefati-gable Dr. Christian Fenger.
Just after Haymarket, Chief Nathan Kohler’s intelligent predecessor had made a deal for space at Cook County Hospital for police morgue work. What Dr. Fenger got in return was an endless and steady supply of John and Jane Does—cadavers. Christian’s operating theater, where he taught surgery to a generation of doctors, never lacked for cadavers, not like the University of Chicago, Northwestern University, and many other surgeries and medical schools. Before this arrangement between Cook County and the CPD, the earlier police coroner had been a former barber turned pathologist named Louie Fountenay who knew little to nothing about police science and investigation. A man without imagination as well.
“Be sure to point out the situation with the head and fingers to Doc Fenger when you accompany the body to the morgue, O’Malley.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.” O’Malley jotted a note and mouthed, “Fingers . . . give fingers to Fenger.”
CHAPTER 5
Chicago had almost as many train terminals as police districts, but the Illinois Central Station had just opened this year as the busiest terminus for Columbian Exposition fairgoers. Designed as a through station—as many of the suburban trains used tracks that went through the terminal and on to Randolph and Lake streets—New York architect Bradford L. Gilbert patterned it on a Monet painting of the Paris train station. Opened to serve the tourist traffic to and from the great fair, Illinois Central stood a sight to behold with its towering, gangly turreted clock tower, gaudy Romanesque exterior, and its ponderous Richardsonian office wing extending outward from one side of the tower.
Spindly iron columns that appeared ready to collapse at any moment under the weight of the massive masonry supported this penitent-looking wing. The whole an ugly symbol of the city’s progress, felt awkward, a hodge-podge of random, hastily got-up gore, so far as Ransom could see.
Still, trains of every size and stripe bellowed and roared and whistled in and out, some suburban lines only slowing, going on to their next destination, while the huge engines of the Illinois Central and the Baltimore and Ohio sat at opposite ends like two bulls sizing one another up.
The interior of the building featured an enormous ellipti
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cally vaulted waiting room straddling the tracks, and a grand staircase leading up to where Ransom stood. The marble steps opened wide, butterfly-fashion on two sides, going up to the second concourse. It was from up here one found stairs going to the top of the clock tower.
Two uniformed officers who Ransom had sent up to the clock tower and roof to investigate returned now with a brown paper bag in which they’d gathered six cigar butts, all the same brand, their bands proclaiming them Cuban Valenzas. Could the killer be so foolish? Had he staked out his victims over a period of days from the clock tower? Looking down over the panorama of the world’s fair from that vaulted position?
“None of the workmen here claim the habit or the brand, sir,” said the officer in charge of the tower hunt.
Ransom’s partner added, “A costly brand—Valenzas—not sold everywhere in the city. I smoke them myself on occasion.”
Ransom nodded, taking this all in, mentally picturing the killer dousing the young man with kerosene and lighting the corpse with his cigar. “Should I put you on my suspect list, Griff?” joked Alastair. He also made a mental note to call Stratemeyer, Chicago’s foremost fire investigator. Get him down to Fenger’s morgue to help determine the exact nature of the accelerant, and if it might’ve been touched off by a cigar. If any man could find residue of cigar in the ashes of the boy’s clothing, it was Harry Stratemeyer. Ransom had already drawn on Harry in connection with the previously torched garrote victims, and Stratemeyer assured him that neither had been torched while alive. Alastair imagined it so in this case as well, as the fire had remained stationary, the grime and creosote trail going nowhere. People afire who are alive tended to spread it around.
Ransom had taken no notice that Drimmer had stiffened, rankling at the suggestion he could be a killer.
Instead Alastair was watching the trains come and go below, like herding elephants in India, recalling his time there CITY FOR RANSOM
39
a few years ago while on holiday. Just outside the huge, marble-columned, marble-floored concourse, just outside the west and south windows, lay the infamous red-light Levee district and beyond, a slum wasteland. Closer to hand, directly below the window where he stood, Ransom studied the warm but limited glow of the gaslights that lined the little “cow paths”—so-called by students coming and going from the University of Chicago campus. The same lanes once led cattle to the slaughter at the Chicago Stock Yards—a standing joke with the students, but now rail lines hauled the cattle to slaughter, and the slaughter paths had been left for the students going to exams.