William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“Well, again, that isn’t really my job, and to tell you the truth, I don’t know that much about it. But I believe that all crimes will cease to flourish if we continue to apply scientific methods to eliminating the elements that corrupt our society. We have an unprecedented ability to fight crime with forensic science. We can apply new technology to our traffic problem. We can employ sociological knowledge to combat juvenile delinquency. Despite the poor economy, this is a great time to be alive.” He smiled, and the twinkle returned to his eye. “I pledge that I will use all these tools and more to make this city a safe place for you and your children. That’s what a safety director does.”

The audience responded with an enthusiastic round of applause.

JUNE 5, 1936

Gomez Ivey tried to see how far he could travel on one rail of the train tracks without falling off. As it turned out, he could go a good long way, especially if he used his fishing pole to keep himself balanced.

“Look at me!” Gomez hollered. “I’m the New York Central train!” “You ain’t no train,” Louis Cheeley shouted back. Louis was two years younger than Gomez-only eleven-but even Gomez knew he was far more sensible. He would never pull the same crazy stunts. Come to think of it, he normally wouldn’t ditch school to go fishing, either. But he’d warmed to the idea pretty fast when Gomez suggested it. “You may be black, but you ain’t no train.”

“You think they’ll miss us back at Outhwaite?” Gomez asked, referring to the school they both attended-or were supposed to attend. “They might miss us, but what they gonna do about it?” Gomez kept moving. “Serves them right. Who ever heard of having school this late in the year? When it’s crazy hot outside. And the fish are bitin’.”

“What’s gonna happen if we get caught?”

“We ain’t gonna get caught.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Look, if you’re so worried about it, you can just go home now.”

“I’m not goin’ home,” Louis said, suddenly defensive. “I may never go home.”

“Yeah, right.”

“If my papa finds out I played hooky, I won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

“Aw, don’t be such a baby.”

“Easy for you to say. You ain’t got no papa.”

Gomez fell silent a moment, his lips pressed tightly together. “I’ve got a papa. Everybody’s got a papa. He’s just off gettin’ work.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s gonna be an engineer someday and he’s gonna ride the rails just like we’re doin’, ’cept he’s gonna be inside the train lookin’ down at boys like us and pulling the whistle and givin’ us the big smile.”

“You be sure and let me know when that happens, Gomez.”

“I will.”

“I wanna be there on the tracks, wavin’ back.”

“You just do that.”

Gomez was relieved when the kid decided to change the subject. “You got any change?”

“Not since I was born. Why?”

Louis wiped the sweat off his brow. “I was just imaginin’ how good an ice-cold Nehi might taste right about now.”

“Man, don’t get me thinkin’ about that.”

“How can you not be thinkin’ about that?”

“There’s no point in-”

Gomez fell silent. He glanced down at a point between the train tracks and the rapid transit line, just beneath a willow tree.

“You see that? Over there.” Gomez pointed. “Beneath the tree. Look like a pair of pants.”

Louis squinted into the sun. “I think they’re tweed.”

Gomez jumped down off the tracks. “Let’s check it out.”

“What for?” Louis trailed a few feet behind. “You can’t wear tweed this time of year, you fool. You’ll melt!”

“Who’s a fool? If there’s a pair of pants that only some white boy would be wearin’, there might be some change in the pocket. Aren’t you the one who was wantin’ some scratch?”

That changed everything. “Lead the way.”

They walked over to the tree, wishing that a willow provided more shade.

The trousers were rolled up neatly and evenly, just at the base of the tree, where thousands of people passed every day.

Gomez tilted his head. There was something strange about all this. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but something was… not right. Off-kilter. Wrong.

He tentatively poked at the bundle with his fishing pole.

Slowly, one of the pant legs began to unfold.

A human head rolled out. Dirty, blood-soaked, severed at the top of the neck.

The boys didn’t stop running until they reached home.

Ness closed the shutters on Chief Matowitz’s office windows. He didn’t want anyone observing, not even reading lips or taking cues from facial expressions. This was a private conversation. It had to be. This time, his concern was not that snitches in the police department might convey information to the mob. He was concerned that they might convey information to the press.

“There must be something more you can give me,” Ness said, hovering over Matowitz’s desk. “Toss me a bone. Something I can tell the newsboys.”

“There isn’t.”

“There’s always something.”

“Not this time.” Matowitz pushed away from his desk, creating more space between himself and his interrogator. “We got nothing.”

“You told me you thought this was over.”

“I said I hoped it was over. It’s been-what? Three months since the last one?”

“Ought to be long enough for you to catch one killer.”

“Maybe for the man who brought down Al Capone.”

Was it Ness ’s imagination, or was Matowitz enjoying this subtle shift in their relationship? In the past, Ness had always held the dominant hand. Ness might come to him for help, for manpower, but given that he was the mayor’s specially deputized agent with an increasingly high profile, Matowitz didn’t have much choice in the matter. The midnight raids were in Ness’s jurisdiction, totally foreign to what Matowitz normally did. But this was different. Ness was entering Matowitz’s playground, the world of homicide detection. And Matowitz was distressingly nonforthcoming.

“Who have you got working on it?”

“Peter Merylo. Best damn detective on the force. Locked up more men than you can count. We’re not just talking about rumrunners. We’re talking seriously dangerous killers.”

Ness wasn’t nearly dumb enough to miss that jab. “Then why hasn’t he locked up this one?”

“Because we have no clues.”

“You’ve identified two victims.”

“And that’s a miracle.” Matowitz reached into his top desk drawer and withdrew a brown file. “These victims have been transients, lowlifes. Scum of the earth. Not folks with a lot of friends or family. No one keeping an eye on them. We think maybe it was some kinda mobland rubout.”

Ness shook his head. “I’ve been up against the mob for a long time. And I’ve seen the remains of some grisly executions. But I’ve never seen them hack a body to bits. That’s too violent, even for the mob. Might violate their twisted sense of honor.”

“Then what’s your theory?”

Was this man still bitter that the first raid on The Thomas Club went bad? Or that he wasn’t there for the one that succeeded? “There must be some connection among the victims. Maybe they all knew something that someone didn’t want to get out. Maybe it was a revenge killing. Someone was sure as heck mad about something.”

“Revenge for what?”

“I can’t know that till I know what they all had in common. Maybe they all knew the thief. Andrassy.”

“Possible that Flo Polillo did. She seems to have gotten around. If you know what I mean.”