“Here’s the thing, Peter,” Ness said, as he polished off his club sandwich. “I’m closing down the investigation.”
“What?” Merylo and Zalewski both looked at him bug-eyed. “Why?”
“What’s the point? There haven’t been any killings for a long time.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Probably won’t be any ever again.”
“You don’t know that.”
Ness hesitated a moment. “At any rate, I can’t afford to devote so many resources to one dead investigation, and neither can Chief Matowitz.”
“Have you talked to the mayor about this?”
“In fact, it was the mayor’s idea. He wants to put this thing behind him.”
Zalewski wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Should’ve known. Politics. Do a clean sweep before reelection time.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m just surprised-well, if you don’t mind my saying so-I’m surprised you’re going along with it, Mr. Ness.”
Ness looked away. “No sense in beating a dead horse.”
Zalewski looked down quietly. “No. I guess not.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?” Merylo asked.
“What you always did. Investigate crimes. Current crimes. You’ll go back to reporting to Chief Matowitz. Like it used to be. You’ll be happier, I’d imagine.”
“Maybe so.”
“Here, let me get this.” Ness grabbed the ticket and put a dollar fifty down on the counter. “That should cover it. Enjoyed lunch. Hope to see you boys again soon. And thanks for all your hard work.”
They watched as the safety director left the diner.
“Can you believe that?” Zalewski asked.
“Yeah,” Merylo replied, as he finished off his pastrami. “I can believe it. He’s a politician now. Not a cop. He’ll probably be running for mayor next.”
“So, are you going to do what he says?”
“He’s not my boss. Not anymore.”
“You know what I mean. Are you going to stop investigating the torso murders?”
Merylo stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the image in the mirror behind the counter. “Never.”
“… so it’s really a good thing. I can be more use to the country working for the government.”
Chamberlin could not hide his surprise. “Back to the Treasury Department?”
“Not this time. The Army.”
“You’re enlisting?”
“No. They’re creating a special post for me. Where I can be of the most service. You know-war is coming.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“We’re all going to have to contribute. Pull together. Help out any way we can.”
“Of course. Maybe now you’ll have more time to spend with the wife.”
Ness did not answer at first. “Yeah.”
“Well then.” Chamberlin drew his tall frame to attention. “Best of wishes, sir. The Army is lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, Bob.” He started for the door. “Oh, by the way. I wasn’t going to say anything…”
“Yes?”
“But-I know.”
“Pardon me?”
“I know, Bob. I know you were the leak.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“You’re the one who kept feeding information to Congressman Sweeney. And then he sent it to the press. When he wanted it publicized. The secret interrogation. The Kingsbury raids. It was you.”
Chamberlin looked down at the floor. “I suppose there’s no point in denying it?”
Ness shook his head.
“It was nothing personal, you know. But it was illegal-all of that. If we allow our public officials to violate the law, soon there will be no law. And a guy has to look out for himself. I liked working for you. But I could see you wouldn’t be around forever, not the way you shook things up. I had to think ahead.”
“You going to work for Sweeney now?”
“He offered me a position, if I ever needed one.” He paused. “Think I might wait and see how the elections come out first.”
“That’s sensible. Good politics.”
“Yeah.”
Ness pressed his fedora down onto his head. “It’s ironic, you know. I cleaned up the police department. The mob. The labor racketeers. But I forgot to clean up my own office.” He opened the door.
“Mr. Ness?”
He paused. “Yes?”
“You never said-what are you going to do for the Army?”
Ness smiled a little. “I’m going to keep people safe, Bob. That’s what I do.”
Epilogue
FEBRUARY 16, 1957
Ness stared at the postcard clenched in his trembling hands.
PARANOIDAL-NEMESIS, it said, in shaky handwriting. And just above that: F. E. S WEENEY, M.D. He had pasted down an article about poison. It was postmarked DAYTON, OH.
How many of these had he received over the years? Ness wondered, as he ambled back to his armchair. More than he could count. They’d started in Cleveland and followed him his entire life. Every time he moved, the postcards still managed to find him. He had tried to keep it from his wives. His third and current wife, Betty, knew nothing about them, or about Frank Sweeney, or why he had been permanently institutionalized in a Dayton mental home. Where they kept him under lock and key. But apparently allowed him mail privileges.
Ness took a drink, and as the dark whiskey coated his throat and warmed his gut a flood of memories returned. He didn’t miss Cleveland. The press had been hard enough on him when he supposedly failed to apprehend the Torso Murderer. But after the alleged hit-and-run incident-he’d been drinking-they savaged him. Oh, the irony. The great Prohibition agent caught drunk driving. It was just too marvelous for the press to resist. He spent the World War II years traveling from one place to the next, advising soldiers on the horrors of venereal disease.
After the war, he returned to Cleveland and someone got the crazy idea that he should run for mayor. Worse, Ness was crazy enough to listen. Harold Burton was gone and the Democratic incumbent ran him ragged. What did he know about politics? Small wonder he was trounced. When the reporters asked Ness about his opponent’s time in office, he admitted the man had done a pretty good job. And of course, the campaign gave the press another opportunity to bring up the torso murders.
The torso murders. His great failure. It was enough to make a man sick.
He should never have gone along with that deal. Letting Sweeney go. Never should’ve agreed. But what choice did he have?
After the war, Ness decided to go into business. The watermark venture, insurance, others. None of it panned out. He had a head for law enforcement, not business. He lost all the money he invested and a lot more besides. And now he was stuck in Pennsylvania, dirt-poor, forced to sell his life story for three hundred dollars.
It wasn’t enough, not for all he had done over the years. But they needed grocery money.
“What do you think was the problem in Cleveland?” Oscar Fraley asked. “Why couldn’t they catch the guy?”
“I said I didn’t want anything about that in the book.”
“I know, I know. Indulge my curiosity.”
Ness did not answer the question. “You heard anything about profiling?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I got some friends over at the FBI. I used to want to be in the FBI, did I tell you that? Wanted it more than anything in the world. Turns out J. Edgar Hoover was jealous of me. Yeah, I got it on the best authority. He was jealous of all the publicity I attracted. He liked being the only guy in law enforcement who got good press. That’s why he shafted poor Melvin Purvis. That’s why he never let me in. Even spread some nasty gossip about me.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. But that’s not my point. Nowadays the Feds got this new thing they call behavioral science. They’re looking closely at these crazy cases, the people who go around killing, sometimes torturing and mutilating, for no apparent reason. Crazy, yeah, but crazy how? Turns out all these guys have stuff in common, and if you know what it is, it helps you track them down. Like what the alienists used to say, only a thousand times better, more detailed. Maybe someday might even make it possible to identify these kooks before they strike. At least that’s what the Feds are hoping.”