William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“I enjoyed it.”

“Of course you did. You ate, enjoyed my company for a few seconds, then ran off to play Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy.”

“You’re not-”

“Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me? Left alone-dumped-while my dinner date runs off to play cops and robbers?”

“It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

“That’s the truest thing you’ve said all night. You can’t stop yourself. You’re just like the drunkards and gamblers and drug addicts you put away. You have a constant craving for adventure you have to satisfy. Except it’s never satisfied, never for long.”

“Edna…”

“Another man might be interested in finding a little adventure at home with his wife. In the bedroom.”

“Edna!”

“But not you. Never you. At least-not with me.”

Ness held his head in his hands. How had he let this happen? How was it possible to be so successful in the world-and such a disaster at home?

It occurred to him that the best course might be to simply put her in bed. But he hated for them to go to sleep mad, especially when they saw so little of each other during the day. He had never been a quitter. He tried again.

“I realize I can’t be with you as often as I should. I have to show Cleveland I can do this job. But I will commit to spending as much time with you as is humanly possible. And I will promise you that as soon as I have shown Cleveland that I can do this job, everything will change. I will delegate the midnight raids to others. And anything else that’s delegable. I will become a regular working stiff, keeping regular hours, home every night by six just as you’re putting dinner on the table.”

“I’ve heard this so many times…”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” For a moment, even in the darkness, he saw the faintest traces of a smile play on her lips. “That’s what’s so sad about you, Eliot. So tragic. You do mean well. But you’ll forget everything you’ve said tonight the first time you get a tip about some third-rate moonshiner. A mere woman can never compete with tomorrow’s headlines.”

Ness tried to think of something he could say, something that would save the night, save them. But nothing came. For all his education, it was amazing how quickly words deserted him when he needed them most.

“The mayor has invited us to dinner,” he offered feebly.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Did you hear what I said? The mayor!”

“No.”

“You said you wanted us to spend more time together.”

“That won’t be us spending time together. That will be you social climbing, trying to impress the mayor and the mayor’s wife. I’m not interested.”

Ness pushed himself to his feet. He felt wrung out, exhausted, much too tired to think clearly. He started toward the bedroom.

“Will I be reading about you in the papers tomorrow?”

Ness stopped. “I sincerely hope not.”

“That’s not the Eliot Ness I know.”

“The raid tonight-didn’t go so well.”

“Eliot.” For the first time all night, her voice softened a bit. “No one wins every time. Not even the great Eliot Ness.”

“No,” he replied quietly. “I suppose not.” As he shuffled into the bedroom, he added, just under his breath: “But I can sure as heck try.”

Using a pencil to avoid leaving fingerprints or other trace evidence, Merylo carefully unwrapped the last of the newspaper-wrapped bundles they had found in the two half-bushel baskets behind the White Front Meat Market at 2002 Central. They had expected to find meat in them. They had been right.

And terribly terribly wrong.

“You ever seen anything like this before?” Lieutenant Zalewski said in a hushed voice. His face was an ashen white.

“No,” Merylo had to admit, “I have not. Not in fifteen years. This is… bizarre.”

“You ever hear of the mob doing anything like this?”

“No.” Merylo bristled slightly. “But that doesn’t mean they didn’t. Those boys can be downright inventive sometimes.”

Zalewski stretched, glad to pull away from those revolting baskets. “Uniforms find the rest yet?”

“No. Nothing. Not even-”

Merylo didn’t want to finish, and he didn’t need to finish. They both knew what they were thinking.

No one had found the head.

Once the papers were unwrapped, it became all too clear that they contained the severed pieces of a human body. Tidily wrapped and stored in those two baskets, they found the lower half of a female torso, both thighs, and a right arm.

“Have them fan out,” Merylo said. “Widen the search. Get as many men on it as possible.”

Zalewski dutifully passed along the commands while Merylo tried to make some sense out of what they had discovered.

Was it the same killer? He wasn’t sure what was worse-to imagine that the previous killer had descended to this level, or to imagine that there might be more than one hood capable of doing something like this.

He wondered what this would do to the Cleveland News theory that the first two victims had been the product of a sordid love triangle. They had no evidence in support but lots of glamour, and thus it captured the largest share of the public’s imagination. He didn’t see how this third victim, a female, fit in. If she was the third side of the triangle, who was doing the killing? A third lover? A morally indignant neighbor? It just didn’t make any sense.

Zalewski returned to his side. “I got them on it, sir. There are actually some men volunteering to help. Even as disturbing as it is.”

“They’re scared,” Merylo said quietly. “They want this killer caught. Before he gets to their neighborhood. Their families.”

“Anything else I can do?”

“Call Pearce and get him down here as soon as possible. Wrap up that arm and get it to the Bertillon boys.”

“But Pearce can be awfully-”

“Zalewski, do you have any idea how important the first forty-eight hours can be? That’s when most crimes are solved-if they are solved. After that the trail goes cold. Right now we’ve got a lot of men-volunteers even-scouring this area. The more information they have, the better. So if Bertillon can identify this corpse, we’re going to let them.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“If you learn anything from working with me, son-and I hope you do-you should learn this. A cop has to keep his nose clean. Stay off the take. Follow the rules.” He paused. “Except those rules that sometimes have to be broken to keep some butcher like this one from hacking another innocent person to bits. Do you understand me?”

Zalewski swallowed. “Yes, sir. Perfectly.”

“Good. Now where is this woman who found the baskets? Angela Felice.”

“They took her to the hospital, sir. She went into shock. Might even have some frostbite. After she found the baskets, she passed out. Collapsed in the snow, and she wasn’t wearing much. She was discovered some time later by a drunk looking for shelter.”

“Did he revive her?”

“No. He shook her, but it didn’t work. He was pretty impaired.”

“Gotcha.”

“He ran into the Meat Market and got help. He was slurring badly so it took them awhile to figure out what he was saying. Finally the owner, Charles Page, came out and found the body parts. He called the police.”

“Good thing someone got involved who had the wherewithal to get the word to us. Might’ve been spring thaw before we were on the scene.” He frowned. “You think there’s any chance at all this woman-”

“I don’t think so, sir. Mrs. Felice was really shaken up. If she was behind the killing, they oughta give her an Academy Award, ’cause she would be the best darn actress in the world.”