“It is still early days for our new safety director. But already he is forming an excellent reputation with the people in government and law enforcement-everyone but those who know their days on the force may be numbered, because this is a man who means what he says. Six feet and 172 pounds of fight and vigor, an expert criminologist who looks like a collegian but can battle vice with the best of them, Eliot Ness is dedicated to his job of ensuring law and order in the city of Cleveland. Mayor Burton should be complimented for hiring a safety director without political ties or aspirations who has a spotless record of battling corruption…”
– -
Ness squeezed the paper in his fist and slapped it against his desk. “Did you read this, Robert? Did you read it?”
Robert Chamberlin, the man temporarily assigned by Chief Matowitz to help Ness get situated, nodded. “Indeed I did. Great press. The papers love you.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Chamberlin blinked. “Well, now. That’s the first time since I entered government service that I’ve heard that.”
Ness bounced out of his desk chair and paced around the office. He had always had a hard time sitting still. “What matters is whether I have the clout to clean up the city. These newspapers are helping me get it.”
“You’re the safety director, whether they like you or not.”
“Yes, but for how long? And what exactly are my powers? Do I take orders from the mayor or am I independent? No one seems to know. I can’t do anything without funding, and the city council controls that. No, I need popular support if I’m going to accomplish my goals. That’s why I play along with those newsboys.”
Chamberlin fingered his wire-rimmed glasses. “Is that why?”
“Yes. Means to an end, that’s all.”
“I see.”
“You have any idea how much five hundred traffic lights cost?”
“I don’t even know what a traffic light is.”
Ness laughed. “You will. And then there’s the cost of motorcycles, ambulances. Two-way radios. All the latest scientific innovations. Everything this city needs to relieve congestion and make driving safer. But all of it has a price tag.”
“I’m sure the city council will give you whatever you need.”
“As long as supporting me looks like the popular thing to do. Any news on the brothel raid?”
“I think it’s a lost cause, Eliot.”
“No such thing, Robert. Our only problem has been that we move too slowly. The word gets out to the crooks. Gosh, even when it doesn’t, these mobsters can usually get everything and everyone hidden away between the time our officers knock and the time we get in. We have to move faster. And we have to plug up the leaks.”
“Easy to say, Eliot. Hard to do. There are too many suspects, too many police officers who knew about the raid.”
“And it could have been any of them?”
“It could have been all of them.”
“Get me names, Robert.”
“I can’t be sure, Eliot. I have suspects. But nothing certain.”
“Then I’ll put them on suspension. Then we’ll try the raid again and see what happens.”
“You can’t do that.” Chamberlin was a tall, lanky man, experienced in dealing with bureaucrats and politicians-which had not fully prepared him for working for someone like Eliot Ness. Ness liked that. He knew Chamberlin was more political than he, and that was fine. He could use help in that particular arena. “You can’t take away a man’s job without proof.”
“Not talking about firing them. Suspension with pay.”
“I don’t know…”
“I have to know who I can trust, Robert.” Outside his office door, a man was painting his name, just above the words SAFETY DIRECTOR. He liked the way it looked. “I have to find my Untouchables.”
“We will, sir. But you must be patient.”
Ness chuckled. “Not my best virtue.” His eyes were fixed on the letters on the door. FBI agents got their names on the doors, at least the top ones. He wondered if they looked the same.
“By the way, Eliot-your wife called.”
Ness looked up abruptly, breaking out of his reverie. “Edna?”
“She wanted to know if you’ll be home tonight.”
“Well-of course I’ll be home.” He paused. “I’m not exactly sure when.” The light flickered back into his eyes. “Chief Matowitz and I have made special plans.”
“Anything you’d care to tell me about?”
Ness winked, then he grabbed his hat and headed toward the door that now bore his name. “You can read about it in tomorrow’s papers.”
9
Merylo hated visiting the coroner’s office. Hated it worse than he hated wide ties, Joan Crawford, and that jazzy music. “It Ain’t Necessarily So”-what kind of song was that? Bad grammar excusing bad scansion. But at least he could turn off the radio. Visiting the coroner was part of the job, more and more so with every passing year. When he had started with the force, fifteen years ago, there hadn’t been all that much a coroner could do, other than pronounce a corpse officially dead, fill out the death certificate, and make a semi-educated guess as to the cause of death. Today, modern science had given them the ability to do much more; the coroner had become an integral part of the crime-solving team. So here he was.
But Merylo still didn’t like it.
Fortunately, the new coroner in Cleveland, Arthur J. Pearce, was one of the best in the country. Merylo knew he had written scientific articles for the top forensic journals. Merylo had even read some of them, though he usually got lost in the scientific gibberish. The man had a national reputation. He could be helpful.
Pearce hunched over his examining table, a sharp instrument in one hand and a blunt one in the other, doing something to one of the corpses.
Merylo cleared his throat, but the doctor proceeded with his business as if he hadn’t heard. Maybe he hadn’t-he seemed very focused.
“Got anything new for me?”
No answer.
“Any tips at all? Cause of death? Time of death? Weapon?”
No reaction. Pearce was scraping at a wound. Extracting something. Merylo didn’t really want to know.
“Have you at least matched up the right head to the right body?”
Pearce stopped. His head tilted to one side. He slowly drew himself erect.
“You had done that before the bodies arrived in my office.” He spoke with a clipped, East Coast accent. Merylo wished he could learn how to talk like that. It made the man sound smart. Or maybe that was because he was smart.
“You never know. I might’ve gotten it wrong. Or you might not have caught up with me yet.”
Pearce arched an eyebrow.
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If I got it wrong?”
“Of that you may be certain.”
Pearce turned as if to resume his work, but Merylo stepped forward. “So what have you learned so far?”
Pearce sighed, then laid down his dissecting instruments. “What would you like to know?”
“Cause of death?”
“As you might suspect. Decapitation. With a sharp instrument. Single blow. The killer severed the head in the midcervical region which concomitantly instigated a fracture of the vertebrae.”
Merylo felt something roiling in his stomach. “I was kinda hoping maybe he killed the guys first.”
Pearce shook his head. “When the decapitation occurred, they were very much alive. Given the rope burns around his wrists and ankles, he was probably physically restrained. Tied up.”
“Must take a lot of strength to hack off a man’s head in one whack.”
“Indeed.”
“So we’re looking for someone strong. Someone male.”
“You’re assuming too much.” Pearce removed his protective gloves. “In the case of Victim Number Two, the killer took several-how did you say it?-whacks. There are telltale signs.”
“Hesitation marks?”
“I’m not sure I see any evidence of hesitation. Or regret, or any other human emotion. The skin edges were clear-cut. But he didn’t get the head off in one blow. Neck bones are tough-they’re designed that way. Do you know how many times the executioner had to chop at Mary, Queen of Scots, before he got her head all the way off?”