William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“Then who was it?”

“I couldn’t possibly say.”

“Look, Doc,” Merylo said, “we’re desperate here. We’ve been combing the countryside for miles around Kingsbury Run, and Andrassy’s home neighborhood, and now the Charity Hospital area.”

“With no leads?”

“We get leads. But none of them go anywhere. Trouble is, the papers and radio are getting people so worked up, they’re just not rational anymore. They’re scared, and scared people do stupid stuff. Every time they hear a footstep or a barking dog or see a picnic basket, they go into a panic. They suspect every stranger, every neighbor with a pair of binoculars, everyone with a funny accent. The leads don’t lead anywhere because they’re based on irrational fear, not information.”

“Your killer has twice left corpses in very public places. Eventually you’re bound to find someone who caught him in the act.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But so far not. So far no one saw him do anything.”

“Or at least,” Zalewski added quietly, “no one who saw him do anything lived to talk about it.”

Another disturbing possibility, and one that Merylo had to admit had crossed his mind.

“We’ve been trying everything we know. We’ve questioned Andrassy’s relatives, everyone who knew him. We got nothing. Interviewed all the women associated with him-and there were many. Learned nothing.”

“Except,” Zalewski said, interrupting again, “whatever it was that man had, I wish I could get some.”

“Yeah, the ladies loved him, but someone else didn’t. Some folks say Andrassy carried an ice pick with him for protection-but that didn’t save him from the man who cut off his head. My men canvassed the neighborhood at the summit of Jackass Hill, showing the Andrassy mug shot around. No one knew anything.”

“What about his work history?” Pearce inquired. “Have you investigated that?”

“Of course I have. What do you take me for, an amateur? Problem is, he rarely had anything you could call a real job. Your typical con man. Grifter. Had a job at City Hospital that he worked off and on over eight years. Probably came back whenever he needed some cash, left as soon as he didn’t.”

Pearce tapped the tip of his cigarette against the ashtray, his eyebrows knitted. “Where did he work in the hospital?”

“The loony bin. Why?”

Pearce laid down his cigarette. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. What’s your point?”

“I don’t have a point,” Pearce said, turning his eyes away and staring at a fixed point on the wall. “But it would not surprise me to learn that this killer had spent time in a psychiatric ward.”

“You suspect some freak who can’t even think straight could pull off these crimes and get away with it? I’m not even sure the mob’s top man could commit these crimes and get away with it!”

Pearce sighed heavily, then retook his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Detective Merylo. Have you ever heard of a man known as Jack the Ripper?”

Merylo searched his mind. “Think so. Some kind of murderer, right? In England?”

“What do you know about him?”

“I-don’t really remember.”

“Jack the Ripper stalked the streets of London in the 1880s,” Pearce explained, “in Whitechapel, one of the poorest and most decadent parts of the city-not unlike Kingsbury Run. Took at least five victims. Taunted the police with cryptic messages. Used a knife. But he wasn’t content to simply kill his victims. He destroyed them. With such anatomical accuracy that some people suspected he might be a doctor. Or a butcher. He seemed particularly interested in destroying female reproductive systems. Ripped them to shreds. Hence the name.”

“Was he ever caught?”

“Never.”

Merylo squinted. “And you’re saying this… Jack the Ripper might be the one who’s killing people in Cleveland?”

Pearce’s eyes drifted heavenward. “No, that is not what I’m saying. Detective, have you considered the possibility of consulting an alienist?”

Merylo blinked twice. “A what?”

“A doctor of the mind.”

“How’s he supposed to catch a killer?”

“By understanding how he thinks.”

“How’s that going to help?”

“If the killer is not behaving rationally, traditional methods of crime solving will be of no avail. You must develop new approaches.”

“Sounds like a load of hogwash to me.”

“If you understand how the killer thinks, you might be able to anticipate his next move.”

“I don’t want a next move! I want to catch him before he strikes again.”

Pearce blew a dense cloud of smoke into the air. “Have either of you gentlemen heard of a Viennese doctor called Sigmund Freud?”

“No,” Merylo said gruffly. “We haven’t.”

“Um, actually…” Zalewski shuffled his feet. “I have.”

Merylo stared at him as if he were some kind of bug.

“What do you know about him?”

Zalewski’s face flushed. “A few years ago, I was having these really bad dreams. Nightmares, you know? I’d dream I woke up in the morning and parts of my body were missing. Or I’d be coming to work, except with no clothes on.”

“That’s just weird,” Merylo grumbled.

“Not really,” Pearce said. “Those are universal fears. Haven’t you ever had dreams like that?”

Merylo’s face hardened. “No. Never.”

“Anyway,” Zalewski continued, “my ma was worried about me. So she got me this book by that guy you were talking about, that Freud. The Interpretation of Dreams. Turns out this guy thinks your dreams are like symbols, and by examining your dreams you can learn about yourself.”

“What did you learn about yourself from the book?” Pearce asked.

Zalewski stared at the floor. “Tell you the truth-I thought it was kinda tough goin’.”

Pearce smiled slightly, possibly for the first time Merylo had ever seen. “You’re not the first to think so. Doctor Freud is perhaps a greater doctor than a writer. And there have been questions about the accuracy of his English translator.” Pearce paused, taking another drag on his cigarette. “If you’re interested, I could put you in touch with an alienist of my acquaintance. He lives in New York but for a case of this significance, I’m sure-”

“Thanks very much, Doctor,” Merylo said abruptly, “but I don’t think we need any newfangled college-boy nonsense. We’ll solve this case the old-fashioned way. By beating the streets and doing good solid detective work.”

“As you wish. But if you change your mind-”

“Thanks, Doc, but I won’t. Andrassy may have been a punk, but he was still a criminal and he hung with criminals. If we sniff around long enough, we’ll find out who wanted him dead bad enough to-”

All at once, the door to the coroner’s office flew open. “Detective Merylo!”

Merylo recognized the kid as one of the boys from Bertillon, but he couldn’t remember his name. “Yeah?”

“We’ve identified the new corpse.”

Merylo’s eyes ballooned. “Yeah?”

“Took awhile-the fingers were in such poor condition. But we managed it. Turns out we have her prints on file.”

A smile spread from one end of Merylo’s face to the other. “Because she has a criminal record?”

“Exactly.”

“Swell.” Merylo gave Zalewski a little shove toward the door. “We’ve identified two victims now. All we have to do now is figure out what-or who-they have in common.”

He waved at Dr. Pearce as he passed through the door. “Thanks for nothing, Doctor. Turns out we don’t need you after all.”

Ness had been to The Thomas Club before. And he’d been thinking about it ever since.