“Take your pick.”
“I’m sure I want to be your partner. I’d be crazy to say no. You’re the top homicide detective on the force. I figure this jumps me up five, maybe eight years ahead in my career.”
Merylo didn’t argue. “And the picnic?”
Zalewski shrugged. “I was told I’d have to make sacrifices for my career.”
Merylo smiled. This must take some getting used to for Zalewski, especially given Merylo’s bulldog reputation with the rest of the boys on the force. All work and no play. Nose to the grindstone. Never give a sucker a break. And here they were, on the highest point of Jackass Hill, sitting on a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, having a picnic. On a cold day, no less. Yes, the rest of the boys would think they were insane. Or something worse.
“I noticed you didn’t use mustard,” Merylo commented.
“Never cared for the stuff. Hard on my stomach.”
“It’s not a Coney without mustard.”
“I’m doin’ okay.”
“And sauerkraut-that’s the key to the whole thing. You didn’t take any sauerkraut.”
“What kind of red-blooded American puts sauerkraut on some-thin’ as American as a Coney?”
“The ones who like good food.”
“Hmph. Sounds like a Kraut thing to me. You got a thing for the kaiser? Or that new kid?”
“Adolf Hitler?”
“Yeah, him. I hear he’s really whipping that country into shape.”
“Is that what you hear?”
“Yeah. He got that Saarland back, didn’t he? Made military service mandatory. Got rid of the Versailles Treaty that was slowing him down.”
“And you see that as a good thing?”
“Personally, I think we went too easy on the Krauts after we beat them down in the Great War.”
“The War to End All Wars.”
“Yeah. But with this Hitler guy in charge, maybe they’ll get civilized. Join the rest of the world.”
Merylo addressed his attention to his perfectly constructed Coney. “I hear he burns books.”
“Yeah, well, tell you the truth, I was never that crazy about books myself. So,” Zalewski added, obviously choosing his words carefully, “mind if I ask why we’re out here in the middle of winter having a picnic?”
“I think you’re entitled. Seem strange?”
“Well… it doesn’t match up with the standard Merylo image.”
“When you’re on a case, working the streets, working over some thug, you need a certain authority.”
“I can see that.”
“But I can still appreciate a picnic. And I thought it might give us a chance to get to know each other. Since we’re going to be working together. Right?”
“Right. Right.”
“So what else is bothering you?”
“Who said-?”
“You haven’t taken a bite out of your Coney.”
“Oh! Well…” He picked it up and crammed half of it into his mouth. “Mmm. Good.”
“Glad you approve. There is fancier fare. But it’s hard to beat a good Coney. I practically survive on ’em. Which may explain why I look the way I do,” he added, patting his firm but substantial belly.
“So, okay, we’re having a picnic,” Zalewski said, wiping his mouth, “we’re getting to know each other. But why here? In Kingsbury Run. On a cold day.”
“Now that’s the question. Glad you finally got there, Lieutenant.” Merylo put down his dog and gestured expansively. “Look around you. What do you see?”
Zalewski took in a panoramic view of the countryside. From here on the apex of the Hill, you could see for miles around. “Lotsa scrub. Brush. Dirt. Some kids playing. More kids running all over the gully, probably hopin’ they might find another corpse. Industrial complex to the northeast, pumpin’ more soot and smoke into the air.”
“Keep going.”
“Two trains headed toward the factory. Some decent houses off to the south, some wretched ones off to the north. And Shantytown, of course.”
“Exactly. Spent much time in Shantytown?”
Even as he asked the question, Merylo already knew the answer: Why would he? Why would anyone? A miserable assortment of derelicts and destitutes living in packing boxes or, at best, makeshift sheds. It was the embarrassment of the city.
“Tried my best to avoid it, tell the truth,” Zalewski said, a trifle shamefaced.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Perfectly understandable. If a crime hasn’t brought you out there, what would? Got any notion who’s living there?”
Zalewski shrugged. “Bums. Vagrants. Hoboes.”
“That’s true. We get a lot of those. They ride in on the rails and stay, least till they get in some kind of trouble and have to move on. Most cases, there’s no record they were ever there. No one remembers.”
“Sounds like bad news for crime solving.”
“Exactly. Thing is-it’s not just bums.”
“It isn’t?”
Merylo shook his head. “Sure you won’t try some sauerkraut?” Zalewski declined. “There’s some good folk out there, entire families even. Poor joes who lost their jobs when the stock market crashed and work got scarce and haven’t been able to get back on their feet since. Migrants escaping the Dust Bowl. There’s even some poor boys who’ve found some kind of job or other, but it doesn’t pay well enough for them to live anywhere else.”
“Really?”
Merylo nodded while he smeared mustard on a second dog. “Imagine that. You work all day in some damn factory or slaughterhouse, and still your family’s living in a shack. During a Cleveland winter. That,” he said, giving a decisive twist to the lid of the mustard jar, “might drive a guy to do anything.”
Zalewski swallowed. “You mean-even cutting off two men’s heads?”
“That’s not the act of a desperate man. But I think desperation might cause a man to do things he ought not be doing. Ever wonder why the corpses were left here?”
“Seems like a lot of work.”
“Exactly. You can’t drive a car down that gully. They weren’t rolled down the hill-that would’ve left marks. The killer had to carry them a long way.”
“Maybe that’s why he drained the blood. To lighten the load.”
Merylo avoided rolling his eyes. “Don’t think that would make much difference. Especially to this killer. He had to be strong to get those corpses out here. I don’t think I could do it.”
“Maybe he had help.”
“That’s possible. Especially if the mob’s involved.”
Zalewski gave him a narrowed eye. “You know something, don’t you?”
“In fact, I do.” Merylo pulled a folded report out of his coat pocket. “Know much about the Bertillon department?”
“That’s, uh, French, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s named for a French guy. Invented what we call anthropometry. A way of taking precise measurements of a criminal’s features, so they can be used later to identify him. He came up with a lot of other stuff we use every day-like the mug shot. Using plaster to preserve footprints. Ballistics. Showed us how science could be used to solve crimes.”
“Sounds like a smart guy. For a frog.”
“He got the Dreyfus case totally wrong, but who hasn’t made a mistake at one time or other?”
Zalewski looked puzzled. “But how’s this help us? We haven’t got a footprint. Or a bullet.”
“True. But we do have hands. And the hands have fingerprints. You know what they are, right?”
“Course I do. Did that Bertillon guy discover those, too?”
“No, but he showed us how to use them. Our Bertillon department has a pretty substantial collection of them. Including one for a Hungarian mug named Edward W. Andrassy.” Merylo paused. “Also known to you as the first victim.”
Zalewski’s eyes bugged. “What? How’d you figure that out?”
“Andrassy was picked up in 1931 for carrying a concealed. They printed him. Took a mug shot, too. Course, his face is pretty messed up now. But it’s definitely him.”
“Was he in the mob?”
“Nah. Strictly small potatoes. Long record of petty offenses. Gambler. Drunk. Good-looking-people say he was popular with the ladies, go figure. I never could understand what dames go for. He liked to hang out in some of those sleazy joints on Rowdy Row. Third District. No indication that he ever did anything big time.”