More harrumphing, followed by a few winks and eyes averted toward the rug.
“I have a question,” The Meat Packer said.
“What would that be?”
“If we sign on for this-does that make us Untouchables?”
Ness sighed. “I get that a lot.”
“I might fancy that,” The Uptown Physician said. “Imagine telling the little woman I’ve become an Untouchable.”
“Which of your little women would that be?” The Architect asked, followed by the loudest round of laughter yet.
“Stop right there,” Ness said. “If you sign on for this-for that matter, even if you don’t-you can tell no one. Absolutely no one. I’ve learned how quickly an operation can be compromised by leaks. You can’t tell your friends, your wives, your mistresses. No one.”
He took a deep breath, then opted to answer the question. “No, I don’t think you’ll become the Untouchables. I think you’ll become… the Unknowns. My problem here isn’t that I think the killer is buying people off. My problems are the press and the law. I need people who can work under the cover of darkness, in the shadows. People only accountable to me. And unknown to everyone else.”
The Meat Packer nodded approvingly and ground out his cigar. “The Unknowns. I like that. Sounds like something out of a Charlie Chan picture.”
“Charlie Chan never faced any criminal like this, gentlemen. But I don’t need him, or any of his many sons. All I need is your help. Your support. Can I count you in?”
To his dismay, there was no immediate response, no reaction of any kind. At first, the men appeared to be looking from one to another, checking faces, wondering who would go first. If anyone.
“Supposing you catch this maniac,” The Oil Baron said. “Will you acknowledge our help then?”
“Probably not,” Ness answered. “That might get us all thrown in jail. Or spoil a prosecutor’s case.”
“Not much of an investment if there’s no chance of a return,” The Banker sniffed.
“No argument,” Ness replied. “There’s nothing in this for you at all. It’s just the right thing to do.”
“Can’t even use it to impress women,” The Uptown Physician groused.
“Gentlemen, please.” Ness tried not to let his voice sound pleading. He knew that would not be effective with men such as these. “Think of the safety of the city. The people. Those victims.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking about,” said The Councilman, speaking for the first time this evening. “My daughter Joan walks home sometimes, even though I tell her not to. Won’t take a cab, says she likes to stretch her legs. She walks almost the same way that Barkley woman did. The one who found the corpse on the west side.”
He looked Ness straight in the eye and held out his hand. “I’m in, Eliot. For whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Jim.”
“And me,” said The Architect.
“And me.”
And then they all followed, one after the other, every single one of them, giving Ness an even better showing than he had hoped for. He would have more than enough money now. He would be able to finance six, maybe even eight operatives.
He would contact them immediately and put them to work. There was no time to waste.
This evening, he had received another postcard. At his newly rented apartment.
36
Merylo stared down at the dry creek. Debris littered the surface-discarded metalworks, train tracks, paper, clothes, refuse of all kinds. But no body parts. Not a one.
“How long did it take them to drain the creek?” Merylo asked quietly.
“Three days. Cost a fortune, too.”
“And nothing to show for it.” Merylo smashed his hat between his hands. First they had brought in a high-pressure pump to stir up the water. Then they sent in divers. Then they tried ceiling hooks again. They managed to snag the right thigh, but no head. They built makeshift bridges from wooden planks to extend the reach of the hooks, without avail. Another diving operation produced nothing. Even the volunteer foot soldiers Merylo sent out produced no results.
All within view of the teeming spectators. According to the Cleveland News, over one hundred thousand people had come to watch the operation at some point. To watch the police fail. Again.
“The chief won’t be happy about this,” Zalewski said. “Especially getting civilians involved. And since it was done on your order…”
“ Ness told me to do everything I could think of to catch this killer,” Merylo replied. “So I did. If we’d found a head, and could identify it, we’d be a lot closer to catching our murderer.”
“Pearce says by this time, even if you found a head, it would be so decomposed-”
“Never mind what Pearce says.” Merylo clenched his teeth together, trying to suppress his anger. “No, I take that back. What does the good doctor say? About the victim, I mean. Based on the parts we’ve been able to locate.”
Zalewski took out his notebook and flipped it open. “Vic weighed about 145 pounds and was something like five feet ten. Maybe thirty years old. Brown hair. Head was cut severed from the body between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, in two cuts.”
“Not his best job,” Merylo grunted, “but still admirable.”
“The torso was cut between the third and fourth lumbar vertebrae. Cut the stomach and kidney. Vic was emasculated.” Zablewski paused. “That means his, er, things were, you know, cut off and-”
“I know what it means. Go on.”
“No hesitation marks. Examination of the heart shows that it was still beating when the dismemberment began. Final conclusion: ‘Probable murder by decapitation and subsequent sectioning of body.’ ”
“Probable? Did he imagine we thought the guy might’ve committed suicide? By cutting himself into bits? While he was still alive?”
“Hey, I’m just reporting what the doctor said. Don’t kill the messenger.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Zalewski turned away from the pond. “Did you see the News this morning?”
There was a slight twitch in Merylo’s eye as he responded. “Of course not.”
Zalewski pulled it out of his pocket and read. “The killer is probably a muscular man. He has expert knowledge of human anatomy. The incisions of his knife were clean and were made in each case without guesswork. He may have gathered his knowledge of anatomy as a medical student. Or it is possible that he is a butcher.”
“Like that’s news.” Merylo rubbed his chin. “Bad time to be a Cleveland medical student. Particularly if you’re a little odd-looking.”
“Yeah. I like the way they conclude that the killer is either a medical student or a butcher. As if they were basically the same thing.”
“But never a doctor,” Merylo said, holding up a finger. “Never a surgeon. Even though that would be the obvious conclusion to draw from the killer’s anatomical knowledge. Even the News would not dare say that a highly educated respectable member of society might be a cold-blooded killer.”
Merylo was not so limited. During the past few days, he had visited both medical schools in town and talked to several doctors, looking for leads. He didn’t find any. No practicing physician was willing to acknowledge the possibility that the killer might come from their ranks.
For that matter, Merylo followed up dozens of other leads-an Oriental who was reportedly fond of knives. A scrap dealer who said he saw two men carrying a coffin. Railroad police. A man living under the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge with four hundred pairs of women’s shoes. A voodoo practitioner on East 40th. An escapee from the Athens State hospital. No lead was too small or too unlikely for Merylo. And no lead so far had produced anything positive.